


Sucker

by BasiliskCur, lefthandofglory



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Draco, Bottom Harry, Contracts, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Negotiations, Oral Sex, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Service, Sharing a Bed, Top Draco Malfoy, Top Harry, Twincest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 17:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 89,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10443657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BasiliskCur/pseuds/BasiliskCur, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lefthandofglory/pseuds/lefthandofglory
Summary: Fred and George have discovered there used to be a dedicated cocksucker for each dorm. Nowthere'san interesting tradition thatHogwarts: A Historysomehow forgot to mention.Anyway. The twins. A magic sex contract. What's the worry?Poor Harry. He's killed Voldemort and is back at Hogwarts studying for NEWTs but he's still got to learn the two most important lessons of his life:1.	How to suck cock.2.	Always read the fine print.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an ongoing work that currently updates weekly or biweekly. Come find us on [on tumblr!](https://lefthanded-basilisk.tumblr.com)

It was all the twins's fault. Of course. It was a canary cream of an idea, a ton-tongue toffee’s worth of madness and in any normal year Harry would have laughed it off as he trudged up the tower stairs to his nice dull dorm room bed.

The problem was that Voldemort was dead. Well, that wasn’t a problem, that was bloody marvelous, and he was thrilled the Second Wizarding War was won, but it was just. You see. A bit boring now. They were all back here for their final year, set to the task of attaining the approved academic certificates, the twins included. The Ministry, it seemed, frowned on people concocting new charms and potions when they hadn’t so much as a single NEWT to rub between them. All of them, back to being treated as feckless students rather than the adults they legally were. It rankled.

Also, he was horny. Couldn’t forget that part of it. Ginny was back with Michael Corner, who’d suffered together with her all last year, and hadn’t ever broken up with her to go hunting Horcruxes. Harry hadn't minded, to be honest. The thought of getting a hand down her pants--well, wasn't that something else that seemed a little uninteresting?

Worse, he didn't even have an exciting job to look forward to. Sure, he was going to be an Auror—they couldn't exactly refuse him—but Dawlish had made it extremely clear that Harry was going straight into the paperwork division. Too important to risk in the field, Dawlish had said. Harry had wanted to argue but he also wanted to be useful and good and do whatever the department needed, so he'd kept his mouth shut and just nodded.

Six years of escalating terror culminating in a duel to the death with a mad shite of a wizard and here he was. A normal, safe life just didn't seem to fit. Made him feel like he'd been stuffed into a suit a couple of sizes too small, buttoned in and left to sweat and itch. Which is how he ended up sitting on the rug by the fire, listening to the twins instead of faffing off like a sensible bloke.

“Filch told you that?” Ron’s face scrunched in disbelief. He was lounging on the Gryffindor sofa, manspreading in a way he would never have dared if Hermione and the rest of the girls hadn’t already gone to bed. “Over tea and crumpets then? Just offered him a biscuit and he started dishing on the dirty sex secrets of Olde Tyme Hogwarts?”

“It was firewhisky, not tea, and Chattering Chewies, not crumpets, but yes. We dosed him up, a little liquor, a little candy, and he spilled the dirtiest of the dirty.” Fred was sprawled out in front of the common room fire, looking pleased with himself.

“First he talked a good lot about hanging students by the thumbs—“ George put in, leaning over Fred.

“Bit afraid he's got a thing for thumbs—“

“Then we got him onto the good stuff—“

“Onan’s Relief, The Fair Sex’s Honor Guard, The Eater of Sin,” Fred finished triumphantly. “They had a lot of fancy names for the job, but basically it boiled down to one chap each year taking care of the rest, in the oral way.“

“They used to think wanking was terrible for you. Turned you into a werewolf, ruined your eyes, all that nonsense—"

"And if you weren't wanking, you'd be bothering the girls for sure—"

"So to save everyone, one poor git each year got chosen as the official dorm room cocksucker.” George’s eyes shone. “They really were the good old days, weren’t they?”

Seamus snorted right into his butterbeer. “Who’d volunteer for that? Even the biggest poof in the world wouldn’t want to be on call night and day to suck off us lot. Have to be mad to go for it.”

“Here’s the thing.” Fred sat up and looked conspiratorial, something he did very well. “It’s a lottery type situation. Everyone signs the magic contract and the loser is chosen at random. If you want to get free blow jobs for the year, then you have to take the risk of being the blower instead of one of the blow-ees. The odds are on your side, though. Everyone wins but one.”

Neville ran his tongue around his lips, looking a little more interested than a genuinely nice guy should. “What’s to stop the poor sap who gets picked from refusing to go through with it? Other than conscience and keeping a promise and all that?”

“Magic contract, I said, right? We snitched one of the originals they really used and there’s a nasty little clause in there about non-compliance—“

George reached into their bag and pulled out a yellowed scroll that smelled like the inside of Filch’s filing system. “Basically, your balls get magically squeezed harder and harder until you give in, open up, and start sucking.”

Harry reached over for the scroll, running his eyes down it as it unrolled. Sure enough, it was a magic BJ contract, circa the turn of the century. He handed it back to Fred, who had a smile like the devil selling buttered biscuits.

He looked the others over: Fred, George, Ron, Seamus, Dean, Neville, and himself. Oh, and McLaggen, who’d scuttled back to finish up now that it was safe. There was only a one in eight chance of being the wretched sod who had to suck the others off. That meant a seven in eight chance of all the BJs he wanted and Merlin knew his dick was absolutely desperate.

Hell, he’d already been the Chosen One once. It had to be time for someone else’s number to come up. “I’m in,” he said, before the saner, more sensible part of his brain could stop him.

Plus, okay, there was the little matter that it would be a bloke sucking him off. This would be the perfect chance to find out—well, he liked girls okay which meant he had to be straight, right?—but well, hadn’t he wondered? Thought about Neville’s lips, Ron’s hands, the twin’s bright, malicious eyes? Malfoy's—

Okay, he wasn’t going to think about Malfoy but anyway, with this everyone was going to be getting sucked. He wouldn’t have to come on to a bloke, try to guess who was or who wasn’t into that, get marked out as some poof when he didn’t even really know what he wanted. He could get his cock down another fellow’s throat and still be exactly like all the others.

“I’m in too,” said Neville. He shrugged and didn’t look even the slightest bit abashed. “I don’t want to push Luna, of course not, but—“

“Fair daughter of the moon won’t put out?” Fred sniggered.

“It’s more that she, well, gets distracted. We’ll get to a certain point, a really good point, you know, and then.” He shrugged again. “She’ll just wander off, talking about Nargles or something like that.”

“I’m not sure I ever needed to know how blue your balls are,” Dean said, from the floor next to Seamus. “But fine, I’m in too.”

“Are you out of your nut?” Seamus goggled at him. “What if you lose?”

“Escaped the Snatchers. Lived through the Battle of Hogwarts. Got an O in Potions. Clearly I’m a lucky guy. I’ll risk it.”

“Fine, then, I’m in too.” Seamus rolled his eyes. “Don’t think I can suck a dick sober. If I lose at least I'll have an excuse for spending the whole year soused.”

“That leaves you, little brother.” George reached up and ran a hand over Ron’s knee.

Ron batted it off. “I know what you two are like. This is a bad idea. A really bad idea.”

George pointed at Harry then back at Ron. “Harry's your best friend in the whole world and he’s in. You followed him all the way from the Chamber of Secrets to the battlefield. You going to let him do this little thing alone?”

Ron looked shifty. “What about the girls? Are they going to find out?”

“Oh, that’s the problem, is it?” George wrapped an arm around Fred. “Don’t worry. Part of the contract. Only the dorm’s lads know. Can’t talk about it to anyone unless they’re male, of age, and in our dorm.”

“Fine then.” Ron caught Harry’s eye. “I’m still saying it’s a bad idea though.”

Yeah, okay, it was. Harry knew that. It didn’t stop the thrill that was building in his belly and tightening his balls. It was a bad, terrible, utterly non-boring, stupid, thrilling, _fantastic_ idea.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will post Chapter 3 in honor of the first person who comments!

The next night couldn’t come quickly enough as far as Harry was concerned. His balls had ached on and off all day, as if they could sense the hours ticking down until they could empty their load down some poor sod’s throat. It had been so fucking long since any hand but his own had touched him. There’d been a time there, right before the last battle, when he couldn’t even remember what it was like to want to. It was like some tourniquet of dread had nearly killed any desire for touch and now the blood was finally rushing back in, making him go hard at the slightest thought.

He wiggled with impatience, waiting for the rest to arrive in the dorm room. Finally the twins came in with the contract they'd drawn up and threw themselves down on Ron’s bed, making him shove over to Harry’s. Neville sat on his own, Dean and Seamus shared, and McLaggen lounged in the doorway like the prick he was.

Harry hoped it was McLaggen. He’d love to see that entitled mouth wrapped around his cock. He'd fuck him shallow at first, then deeper, hands bunched in that perfect blond hair as McLaggen sputtered through his thrusts--

Ron nudged him. What if it was Ron? Would he really be able to fuck his best friend’s mouth? 

“What?” Harry whispered, even as he answered his own question. Yeah, he’d feel bad, and he’d apologize too, but he’d fuck Ron’s face if he got the chance, no question.

And what if—Harry could barely think this—but what if he was the one who lost? What if he was the one on his knees, cock after cock pushed down his throat, learning how to suck and lick and please a man? It wouldn't be his fault—everyone would know that he didn't want it. It was just damn bad luck.

Whatever Ron was going to say, it was lost as Fred took charge. “All right gentlemen, we have ourselves here a contract. You all know what it says. If you want in, press your thumb to the bottom of the page and sign your name over it.”

With a flourish, Fred did just that, using George’s back as his desk, and putting thumbprint and signature to the page. George did the same, leaning the parchment against Fred, and then it went around the room—Neville, Dean, Seamus, McLaggen, Ron, and finally, Harry.

Harry signed. He pressed his thumb to the parchment. A tingle of magic hit him, sliding coolly up his arm, twining down his spine, and caressing his bollocks. "What happens now?"

"Now we spin the wand. Everyone get down here. We need a ring." 

Everyone clambered down and got in place. Fred tossed his wand--fourteen inches of pale wood--into the middle. It clattered to the floor and began to spin in a neat circle, sweeping steadily round and round like a watch hand. "It's elimination, not first pick, by the way. That means if it points at you, you're out."

George leaned forward. "If you're safe, you leave the room. Eight, then seven, then six, etcetera, until it's just two left."

"Then it's the final spin and voila, we have our cocksucker." Fred grinned. "The parchment will automatically be enscribed with the fine fellow's name and the magic contract will immediately be in force. Everyone understand?"

Nods went around the room. Every eye was fixed on the spinning wand.

"Right then." Fred picked up the contract and recited the incantation. The candles squelched themselves and a beam of silver light shot out from the end of the wand. It passed over each of them like a tight spotlight: Neville, Dean, Seamus, McLaggen, Ron, Harry, George, Fred, again and again, spinning more and more slowly until finally it jerked to a stop in front of--

"Told you I was lucky!" Dean jumped up and sketched a bow. "I'll just be showing myself out then."

Fred had the wand spinning again before the door even finished closing. Harry had a feel for it now. It started fast with its beam faint, no more than the promise of moonlight outside a darkened window. As the wand slowed, the faint breeze of its spin disappearing, the light grew brighter and brighter, illuminating each face--

"That's me safe." Neville clambered to his feet, too polite to grin. He would have been polite if he lost too, Harry bet. Would have sucked cock with the same stoic resignation with which he'd spent years going to Potions: knowing it was going to be horrible but ready to endure.

Harry's stomach was knotting itself ever tighter as the door closed behind Neville. Six left.

The wand began to twirl again, light flashing from one to the next, fast at first then ever slower: Seamus, McLaggen, Ron, Harry, George, Fred, Seamus, McLaggen, Ron, Harry, George, Fred--

His mind flashed back to years ago, watching from around the corner as Dudley and his friends played some game. There's been a spinner attached to a paper square and one by one they'd flicked it. It twirled and when it stopped, they'd shrieked and argued and moved pieces around a board and he had never, ever been invited to play.

Seamus was already standing up before Harry realized another round had ended. The others were laughing about how Seamus would be no bother at all to the loser—there'd be nothing but whiskey-dick from an Irish souse like him, so he might as well be out.

Harry laughed like he was listening but he couldn't stop looking at the wand. It mesmerized him, whirling again so fast that it seemed to be all stick and no empty space, like the wand was really pointing at everyone at once. It slowed finally, though, resolving into a single discrete line, and when it stopped, it was pointing at—

McLaggen didn't even look surprised, the berk. Never expected to lose, Harry bet, because bad things never happened to beautiful people like him. He'd probably sat the war out on a beach in Ibiza, checking The Prophet in the morning before taking a nice cool swim. Probably complained over dinner that Dumbledore was taking too long to win the war and really, didn't Harry understand that normal people needed to finish their education within a reasonable period of time?

Resentment curdled inside him, along with what Harry didn't want to admit was a surprising pang of loss. He really had wanted to fuck the superior look right off McLaggen's face. 

By the time he'd pulled himself out of a fantasy of blond hair, pouty mouth gone thick with drool, and enticing gag noises coming from the back of that over-entitled prick's mouth, the wand was already slowing down.

Fred was out. Or maybe that was George. Harry couldn't be bothered to try to check the freckle pattern. He was already leaving the room, giving a happy smack to the back of the other twin's head, which meant it was probably Fred. He gave more head smacks. George gave more head ruffles. 

Three left. Ron, Harry, and a twin he thought was George. That was a two-third chance of a Weasley cocksucker. He'd faced worse odds. Still, his stomach was twisting with anxiety and fear and anticipation.

"I really, really don’t want to do this," Ron said as the wand started up again. It wasn't entirely clear if the complaint was directed at Harry or at his brother or just at the universe in general. He'd spent a great deal of the past seven years doing things he really didn't want to do, after all.

Harry felt a pang of guilt. What if it was Ron and what if he was miserable all year and once again it was Harry who'd dragged him into the lion's den? He didn't even have the excuse of needing to save the world this time. He'd just wanted to upgrade his wank sessions. Maybe work a few things out without ever having to talk about it.

Ron gave a cry of triumph and leaped up. Harry, startled, looked from the wand to him and back again, and there it was: Ron was safe. 

Relief washed over him, followed close on its heels by another anxiety. Ron wouldn't make Harry suck him, would he? Why not, an annoyingly honest voice in the back of his brain said, you would have done it to him. Then it started pulling out snapshot memories: Ron in the shower, Ron getting dressed after Quidditch, Ron wanking under the covers and not even trying to be quiet because he didn't know how shite his _Silencio_ was.

"Just us two, then," George—or maybe Fred—said, giving him a curious look. The door closed behind Ron. "Ready to give it a spin?"

Harry nodded, not trusting his voice not to squeak.

Again the wand started to spin.

"Isn't it funny that Fred and I have different wands?" said the twin-who-must-be-George.

Harry wasn't sure he was reassured it was George. Fred was meaner but George was deeper and of the two, deep was usually more dangerous.

"That was the first time I ever considered we might be truly different, that day we went to Ollivander's and got our wands. Same wood, same length, but different cores."

Harry mumbled out a vague grunt, eyes fixed on the still fiercely spinning wand. Not-me-not-me-not-me was all he could hear inside his head. Not-me was safe, not-me was the road he wanted to follow, the one everyone else was on.

"The really funny thing, though, is that the wands got jumbled up within about a day. Can't see the core, of course. Didn't know which one was mine and which was his."

Harry licked his lips and watched as the light flicked past him. "Couldn't you, er, tell by the way they reacted? Your wand is the one that answers to you."

"That's the thing. Some days one wand works for me and some days it's the other. I never know until I test it out which one it's going to be."

"Right, well, trial and error, it's a fine thing." Harry jittered. The wand was taking its sweet time this go around, spinning like a figure skater on finale. Sadistic little length of wood—did it really have to draw this out?

"Fred says it's not the wands that change, it's us. He says we're the ones swapping cores back and forth." George leaned back on his arms, looking utterly relaxed even though the wand had finally started to slow. "That's nonsense of course. Sometimes he says things that aren't true."

"Right, well, I'm sure it's important whose wand you can use." Harry tensed as the light flicked past him, slow and searching as the beam from a lighthouse. "But you don't need to distract me, OK? I can handle it if it's me."

"I sure hope so," George said. He pointed at the wand. It had come to rest with its end directly fixed on him. The light shone on him, leaving Harry in the dark.

Awful things happen in the dark, one part of his brain reminded him. Exciting things happen in the dark too, the other side said. That tingly sensation was already settling around his balls, cool and pleasant now, but ready to tighten if he didn't do his duty. There was just enough light to see the contract on the floor.

"It's me," Harry said as he watched his name etch itself onto the bottom line in firm black script. "Why is it always me?"


	3. Chapter 3

Nothing happened that night. Of all the things Harry might have imagined, that would have been last on the list. He got ready for bed and the others must have all heard it was him, but no one said anything at all. Ron was awkward, not quite meeting his eye, but Neville was just Neville, completely ordinary, and Dean and Seamus had gone off to some Hufflepuff bash. Fred and George had gone to the kitchens, their mischief being apparently managed, and that was that.

The lights were out and Harry was in bed alone. Not that he was disappointed--of course, he was bloody lucky to be left alone. Still, he wondered if that was going to be it. If the whole thing was going to be a laugh that no one ever mentioned and certainly weren't going to do. 

His face reddened as he thought about it, there in the dark with the curtains closed and the sound of snoring filling the air. Maybe he'd been the only one who'd taken it seriously because he was the only one who really wanted to do it. Maybe—and here was a horrible thought—everyone had noticed that he'd been a little keen on the idea. Maybe they were out there laughing about how Harry was hoping to suck some cocks. Whispering about how they knew he'd wanted that all along.

Forget feeling too big for his skin. All of a sudden he felt too small. Like he was back in Dudley's clothes, ridiculous and runty and ashamed. He'd have to laugh it off tomorrow too. Pretend he was in on it and then spend the rest of his life making up for it by never, ever, thinking about cocks again. Maybe he'd go out tomorrow and try to find a girlfriend. Pity Luna was already taken. Someone who was easily distracted and prone to wandering off would have been perfect. 

Or maybe he could try to take Luna away from Neville? It wouldn't be nice but everyone who'd been there tonight would talk about it and if they were talking about him and a girl, pretty soon they'd forget all about that other stupid stuff he hadn't really wanted to do.

Oh fuck, who was he kidding? He couldn't do that to Neville. He didn't want Luna. He just wanted to go back to how it had been yesterday morning, when no one would ever have thought the two words "Harry' and 'cocksucking' in the same sentence. His life was fucked and he wasn't even fucking. And how fucked was that?


	4. Chapter 4

It was a week before it happened. Harry hadn't forgotten the contract—no chance of that—but it seemed like everyone else had. He'd gone back to studying with Hermione and wanking alone and staring bleakly into an infinitely dull future.

Tonight he'd dreamed about Voldemort again.

The dream had ended with him doing the Dark Lord's paperwork. He'd groaned out loud when he woke up--even his nightmares had gotten tame. Then he'd felt all itchy and even though the itch was probably in his soul rather than his skin, he'd swung his legs out of bed and gone to take a shower.

Seamus was in there. Dean too. They weren't doing anything interesting, though. Just soap and water and ordinary shower things.

Seamus rinsed the shampoo out then shook his head like a dog. "Harry! What are you doing here?"

Washing off the thin film of existential dread? Substituting the caress of water for the touch of a human hand? "Ron spilled jam on my pillow," Harry said instead. It wasn’t really a lie. It just hadn't happened tonight.

"Anyway, it's good timing," Seamus said. He looked Harry up and down appreciatively. Harry resisted the urge to cover his cock and cower, like some kind of cherub in an overly pink painting.

"He doesn't know what to do," Seamus told Dean, talking right over Harry's shoulder.

"And you do?" Dean was watching with interest and a little skepticism too. Not enough interest to stop his shampooing and not enough skepticism to raise an eyebrow, but then again Dean never had been obvious.

"Of course," Seamus said. "This kind of thing happens all the time back home in Limerick. I know how to work it."

"Er?" Harry stepped under his own nozzle and turned on the water. He was going to be relaxed and oblivious, even if it killed him. 

"Limerick." Dean leaned back against the common shower wall, out of the direct spray of his own nozzle. "Silly-sounding name. Highest rate of sexual assault in Ireland. A study in contrasts, one might say." 

"It's not assault," Seamus said, shaking that off as if it was obvious. "Harry signed a contract. He agreed."

Harry turned the water to cold, fast. Don't get hard, don’t get hard, for fuck's sake, cock, listen to me--

"I think this type of contract, whether written or oral, can't be enforced without willingness on both sides, not and remain moral—"

Oh, shut it, Dean, Harry thought furiously. Stop being so fucking noble and let's get a cock in my mouth. The sooner he did it, the sooner he could discover he hated it. The rest of the year would be horrible of course but it wouldn't be nearly as horrible as realizing that he liked this.

Seamus was saying something stupid that boiled down to _but he signed it!!_ Dean was watching Harry with that artist's eye of his—it made Harry feel more naked than naked, even though his eyes never strayed far from Harry's face.

"Fine," Dean shrugged at last. "You’re right. He has to do it. No point asking what you want, right Harry?"

"I keep my word," Harry said stiffly. He risked a look downward: the cold water was working. No evidence of interest in that quarter.

"See?" Seamus said. "Now you get behind him, Dean, and pull his arms behind his back."

Dean obligingly pushed Harry between the two of them and pinned his arms, holding them tightly back and crossed at the wrist.

"Now get him down on his knees. You kneel behind him too." 

Dean dropped gently down and pulled Harry with him. The tile was cold beneath his legs, unevenly laid, and hard on his knees. Harry concentrated on those sensations rather than the warm strength of Dean, the feel of his chest pressed to Harry's back. 

Seamus was grinning down at him. Harry schooled his own face to blankness. This was serious business after all, fulfillment of a contract, nothing more—that's what he needed to convey. No reason for his stomach to be fluttering with anticipation.

Seamus reached out and cupped Harry's jaw. Harry almost jerked back, surprised, scared even. There wasn't supposed to be any fondling.

But there wasn't. "See," Seamus was telling Dean. "You just push right here." He dug his thumb into a spot just below Harry's ear.  
A sharp pain shot through his jaw. Harry's mouth popped open, just like that. Like he was a jam-jar needing to be gotten into.

"Please, please tell me you have never done that before," Dean said. Still, he wrapped his other arm around Harry's chest and held him tight and ready.

"Course not." Seamus stroked his cock right in front of Harry's face. It was filling rapidly, getting thicker and harder by the second. He grunted as it swelled. "I'm the youngest of all the cousins. I was always the one on my knees."

Harry wasn't sure which was more remarkable—the sight of an erect cock about to enter his mouth, or the existence of someone who could just up and admit something like that. Seamus's mouth had been fucked. Seamus knew exactly what this was like and he didn't care if Harry and Dean knew about it.

"Someday very soon we're going to talk about consent issues," Dean said. His hand smoothed across Harry's chest, stroking across a nipple, not quite pinching it.

Harry would have protested—no caressing!—but Seamus's cock was already half-way down his throat. He coughed and gagged, a kind of one-two noise that sounded loud and lewd and almost distracted him from the sensation itself. Which was awful. 

Or exciting. It didn't feel good, that was a fact. It felt like retching with a full mouth, which was what it was, he supposed. It just—well, there was also something inside himself that took in the male smell and the tickle of curly hair against his nose as Seamus thrust deep—and said it fucking loved this.

Just like that, he was hard. It wasn't the kind of revelation he wanted, to be honest. He didn't want to be on his knees, clamped in place by one dorm-mate, who was humming something that sounded like 'Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love' while another not-so-gently laved his cock across Harry's tongue.

Maybe, just maybe, this was the kind of revelation that would have been better experienced with someone who he knew liked cock? Harry shook that idea off as fast as it had come—it made him shiver to think of being that exposed. Someone else who liked cock might want to talk about it. They might want Harry to make admissions to other people, even. Then those people would talk to other people and before you knew it, Rita Skeeter would be calling for an interview--

He was so lost in the horrible image of Rita Skeeter saying the words 'Harry' and 'sucks' and 'cock'—goosebumps plumped all up and down his arms at that—that he completely missed Seamus's final grunt. A pulse of bitter fluid spurted across his tongue and Harry gagged, hard. Seamus's hand was on him in a second, holding him in place as pulse after pulse shot into the back of his throat. He swallowed convulsively and then, finally, Seamus's cock was gone. 

"Your turn, mate," Seamus said cheerfully to Dean as he zipped up and turned away. 

"Nah, I'm good." Dean gave Harry a little squeeze and stood. "Got Charms first thing tomorrow." He caught the towel Seamus tossed him and wrapped it around his waist.

Harry stayed down, leaning forward, willing them not to look down. His cock was stiff and his balls were tight and if they saw that, he honestly thought he might die. He didn’t even have the excuse of it being a good experience—it had been shite, even he knew that—and it had still made him hard and left him aching.

"That was right fine, Harry." Seamus gave Harry's head a little rub as he wrapped up in his own towel and followed Dean out. "Cheers!"

Harry slumped back against the wall. He wasn't going to—he wasn't going to-

He grabbed his cock. Precome had slicked it up and it didn't take more than three quick, hard pulls before he was shooting long pearly ropes across the wet floor. He groaned, quiet as he could, and shook, and sat back, thinking hard.


	5. Chapter 5

Nothing happened for the next two days. Harry went to Transfiguration. He turned a newt into a nautilus and a snail into a pail and Ron's wand into a wig. That last one was a mistake. He'd misheard the assignment and then he'd misaimed and, really, it just wasn't one of his better days. 

Ron was still grumpy by the time they started Potions. Harry had to do all the chopping and dicing and stirring—Ron just sat there, pulling long gray hairs off his wand and _Incendioing_ them one by one. It was almost enough to want Snape back, Harry decided as he sliced open a particularly nasty slug: Ron would never have dared to slack off in front of The Iron Lips of Sarcasm. Slughorn, on the other hand, didn't notice or maybe he just didn't care.

Harry was almost ready to feel sane about the whole cocksucking thing. He'd liked it, at least enough. Okay, he could deal with that. He'd gotten hard and he'd wanted to get off afterwards. He just wasn't sure what it meant. He'd wanted to get off after fooling around with Ginny before too. Had that been feelings or had it just been friction? 

He needed a little more experience and the problem with experience was that you had to, well, experience it. With other people. Which was clearly never going to happen again because his dorm-mates were freakish celibates who unwilling to take advantage of him. The berks.


	6. Chapter 6

That lasted three more days then thank Merlin for Neville. The good thing about Neville, Harry realized, was that he was so actually good that it never occurred to him not to enforce the contract. Nev would have scrupulously kept his word if he had lost, so he didn't look at all abashed to ask Harry for some help after a date with Luna. The rest of the dorm was asleep but Harry cast a strong _Silencio_ anyway as he crawled into Neville's bed.

"I just, er, need a little something, Harry." Neville lay back on the bed and waved a hand in a general direction that might have included his crotch. "If it's convenient, that is."

"It's fine." Harry started to lie down a little, then felt really awkward and sat up again. Maybe he was supposed to be a little more business-like about this? "Just. Maybe you should?' He waved a hand too, in a gesture that he hoped meant 'take your trousers off'. He couldn't take them down for Nev, could he? It seemed a little, well, eager.

Fortunately Nev didn't seem embarrassed. Relieved, if anything. He undid his flies and pushed his regulation school trousers down along with his boring white pants and then, there it was—Neville's cock.

It wasn't like Harry hadn't seen it before. They'd shared a room for years. He'd seen it dangling in the shower and he'd seen it bouncing around as Nev shoved his pants on, late for class, and he'd seen it hanging out of Nev's trousers that night he'd tried firewhisky for the first time and passed out on the floor. 

It looked completely different now. Nev was a grower, not a shower, for one. It was easily twice the size of normal and it had gone nearly completely red. How long had the poor fuck spent rubbing off against Luna, getting nowhere in the end but frustrated? Knowing he'd never get off but not able to stop himself from fucking up against her, groaning a little more each time but never quite getting there—

Harry's cock twitched. 

See, though, what did that mean? Thinking about Nev getting hard while rubbing off against Luna—that was rather brilliant. But if Harry was getting hard thinking about a block and a bird together, did that mean he liked birds? Or that he liked blokes? 

Nev was eyeing him now with something between sinking hope and resignation. The poor sod looked about ready to cry with need, to be honest, and his bollocks, when Harry snuck a glance at them, were shiny and swollen tight. Harry almost snickered—he had a sudden cruel urge to start talking about Nargles and wander off. Did Neville have it in him to enforce the contract? Would he have Harry's balls painfully squeezed until he opened up and sucked?

Not that it mattered—Harry was ready to admit to himself, if no one else, that he wanted to do this. He whispered a _Nox_ and positioned himself between Nev's legs, pushing them apart a little to make room. Coarse hair rubbed against Harry's hands and a shiver of nervous pleasure went through him. He pushed up and braced himself over Neville with one hand, searching out his target with the other. He felt his way slowly down Nev's body, which wasn't a caress, it was just feeling his way. His fingers brushed over a nipple—that got him a gasp—and then down and down until there it was—the unmistakable feel of a stiff cock. _Neville's_ cock, thick and hot to the touch.

Nev grunted at that first touch and spread his legs a little wider. Harry gave it a tentative stroke, up then down, and Nev jerked beneath him. A feeling of power rushed through Harry, heady and strong and arousing. He stroked again, harder this time, and Nev gave a little moan and pushed up into Harry's fist. A bead of moisture smeared across his hand: pre-come, already leaking from the tip. 

A sudden worry hit Harry--what if Nev came before he even had a chance to suck him off? Harry lowered his head fast at the thought of that. His nose bumped stomach then he edged over and his mouth was on Neville's cock. Another shiver went through him as he licked around the tip, going far more slowly and delicately than he ever would have allowed himself with the lights on.

Neville groaned. "Luna," he whispered under his breath.

Harry didn't mind. It was kind of what he wanted, really—the chance to find out what felt good without having to be _noticed_ while he did it. That was the problem with sex—if you wanted to discover what you liked doing with other people, you had to actually go and do those things with other people. Before you even knew what you really wanted! Why wasn't there a Sorting Hat for sex? Wouldn't it be so much easier if you could just pop a bit of headwear on and get told exactly what you were?

Anyway Nev was really getting into his theme, which seemed to be _Luna, Luna, Luna_ , with a side of _yeah_. Harry quit with the careful licks and set right to it, taking Nev's cock a little deeper. It slid across his tongue, leaving a salty bitter taste behind that he could really get used to, and Harry tried an experimental head bob, up then down.

Nev's hips jerked. That was a yes to the head bob, then, so Harry did it again. He wasn't taking Nev in very deep and it was a lot easier than what he'd done with Seamus. Thinking of Seamus made his own cock throb—it had been harder and a little mean, but he'd kind of liked it too.

Would it be awful if he rubbed himself a little too? Harry scrubbed his tongue enthusiastically against the underside of Neville's cock. Nev bucked up hard, pushing himself up into Harry's throat, cursing softly. Harry almost gagged and his cock was getting as desperate as Neville sounded. He pushed his hand down his pyjamas, grabbed his cock, and started stroking. What did it matter? Even if Nev noticed, he'd never tell anyone.

Nev's cock slipped out of his mouth. Damn. Harry couldn't seem to keep it in his mouth without using his hands but he needed one of them to hold himself up and there was no way he could pry the other off his own cock, not with how very brilliant each additional stroke was feeling. Harry settled for sticking the tip back in his mouth and fuck if it wasn't dripping even more than before. He worked the bell-end with his lips, worrying at it as he felt his own balls draw up—

Nev let out an unhappy sound. "Er—"

Harry yanked his hand off his cock, feeling guilty. Had Nev noticed? Was he mad? The contract had been about servicing your dormmates, not using your friend's knob to figure out your own desires. "Er? What? No good?"

"It's great. Marvelous." Nev shifted nervously. "Just, er, not so much with the teeth, please?"

"Oh. Right. Apologies." Harry breathed out a long sigh of relief but he took his hand out of his PJs anyway. He tucked his teeth under his lips, bobbed his head a couple of times, then pulled off. "Like that?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's good." The tension went out of Neville's body. At least, the bad kind of tension went out. His thighs were already tightening again. "A little faster though, maybe?"

"Yeah. Right." Harry took Nev's cock in hand and tried stroking up and down as he sucked, teeth carefully tucked away. It was even easier this way. He didn't have to go so deep because his hand was there too, encircling Neville's cock and keeping the stimulation steady and unyielding. 

"Don't stop, please." The bedsheets shifted and pulled underneath them. Nev must be fisting his hands in them. "Fuck. Luna. Fuck, I'm going to—"

Harry's cock was leaking as much as Nev's. He _wanted_ that load shot down his throat, even though Nev was clearly wishing with every fiber of his body that it was Luna's mouth he was bucking up into. Should Harry pull off? Maybe it would seem too eager, too weird—but before he could decide either way, Neville's hips were arching up, his back bowing. The sounds coming out of his throat turned deep and guttural, lower even than a groan.

Harry pressed his aching cock into the mattress and swallowed, again and again. The taste lingered even after he reluctantly pulled off, letting Neville's cock go with a wet plopping sound.

Neville's body relaxed slowly, shuddering the whole time. His breaths slowed. "Luna," he said finally with a voice already slurring with sleep. "I mean, Harry. Thanks, Harry."

"Sure. Good. Glad to help." Harry's PJ bottoms were damp all down the front but thank Merlin it was too dark for anyone to see. He climbed out of Nev's bed and back into his own, feeling a little lonely now. Nev had wanted Luna, but Harry—well, what did Harry want?

He stuck his hand back into his PJs. Maybe the whole 'sex alone but with other people' was overrated. He tossed off fast, pushing himself through his fist again and again as he licked his lips, remembering the lovely pressure of cock on his tongue. He came with a buck of the hips followed by a sigh, and then he cleaned up, and fell asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

"Sorry we've been neglecting your oral education," George-or-Fred said as they passed Harry on the stairs up to the dorms. "We've been busy."

"With a prank so epic," Fred-or-George continued, bouncing a little on his heels, "that it'll be remembered when Old Voldy's name is dust. It's the Age of Weasley now, my boy, just you wait and see."

Harry frowned. The last time he'd seen the twins this enthused, he'd wound up magically obliged to provide oral pleasure to his whole dorm. Anything they considered 'epic' probably involved massive property damage or, possibly, the invention of an embarrassing new disease. "Do I want to ask?" Or is this the kind of thing I need to be able to tell the Aurors, when they come, that I knew nothing about it?" 

One of the twins flipped their wands in the air. The other one caught them, two identical sticks clacking as they fell into his hand. "Best not to know, really."

"You'll know it when you hear it," Fred/George tossed the wands back. "Who else would have the vision—"

"The skill—" 

"The determination—" 

"The borderline sociopathy—" 

"To pull off a stunt like this?"

Harry snickered and continued up to the dorm. It was none of his business. Maybe if he was Head Boy he'd have been obligated to warn someone. But no. McGonagall had decided— _in the interests of moving forward, you understand, Harry_ —that the position should go to a Hufflepuff. 

So Ernie McMillan had gotten the nod and Harry couldn't even really complain. McMillan had been a member of Dumbedore's Army, and he'd stood up to the Carrows, and he'd fought hard in the Battle of Hogwarts too. He deserved it as much as anyone.

But still. Harry had fucking _died_. 

On the plus side, Harry thought as he went into his dorm-room, it meant he had a few free periods with no one else around and no stupid extra duties to attend to. He dropped his books and threw himself on his bed feeling pleasantly free for the moment. 

Within a minute he was bored. He was just about to stick his hand down his pants, or possibly as a last resort actually crack a book, when the door opened. 

McLaggen stepped in with a stupidly superior look on his stupid face. "You're in luck. I've got some time right now. 

Harry groaned and not in the good way. He'd read once about this ancient punishment where they covered you with honey and staked you out on an anthill. Being around McLaggen was like that--each word was like its own little ant, all stinging and twitch-inducing and making you want to slap the ever-living hell out of it. 

"I must have taken my _Felix felicis_ today," Harry said finally with a big fake smile when it became obvious that McLaggen wasn't going away. The one good thing about McLaggen is that you could really lay on the sarcasm. He never got it. "Or maybe it's the stars. Venus is squatting in my quadrant or, hey, passing by _Uranus_. Something like that."

Mclaggen beamed obliviously—of course—and swaggered in, hands already opening his flies. "Everyone gets lucky when I'm around. Just the way it works."

Harry grabbed his wand and threw a closing spell at the door, following it up with a locking spell. He gave McLaggen a long, appraising look. The bloke might be annoying as shite, but Harry had to admit, he was quite fit. 

There was a certain freeing charm to being with someone so irritating, Harry realized in that moment—he could do anything he liked without giving the slightest damn what the bloody bloke thought of him in return. Harry sat up and felt his smile turn real. "Take the trousers off," Harry wiggled his fingers in that direction. Why not get an eyeful when he had the chance? "And your pants, of course. And your jumper and shirt too."

McLaggen paused. "Everything? But all you really need is my—"

"I want to do the very best job I can, McLaggen." Harry schooled his face into his best 'I-am-painfully-serious' look. "Don't you think I need to see all of you for that?"

McLaggen nodded sympathetically, eyes widening. "Of course you do." He started shucking clothes left and right—tie loosened and pulled off, shirt unbuttoned and shrugged from his shoulders, trousers pushed down then kicked off.

Harry looked on with an avidness he didn't even try to hide. Forget merely fit--McLaggen was fucking gorgeous, with tight abs and wide shoulders and thighs thick with muscle. Harry drank all that in and his mouth watered even more as the pants came off. McLaggen's cock sprang free, half-hard and thickening as he watched.

McLaggen plumped down on the edge of the bed, giving himself a lazy tug as he sat. "Nice, huh?"

The thing was, McLaggen wasn't wrong: he was a whole fucking pile full of nice. Was it arrogance to consider yourself really good-looking if you were, actually, really good-looking? Harry considered that for a moment, then shunted the question into the realm of philosophical ideas he didn't give a shite about.

McLaggen pointed at the floor. "You get down there. I'll sit here on the side of the bed."

Harry was about to protest but McLaggen was still talking. Of course. 

"That's how the other blokes who suck me like to do it. Don't need a hand to hold yourself up that way. You can do right by me while still getting yourself off."

"I'm not—" Harry stopped. He wasn't sure what he was going to say. _'I'm not queer'_? _'I don't want to come'_? Because maybe he was. And definitely he did.

McLaggen smiled magnanimously. "Of course you're not. It's not you, it's me." He waved a hand up and down his body. "Even completely straight blokes like Oliver Wood and Percy Weasley and Marcus Flint and, oh, any number of others, want to be with a man who looks as good as I do. Oliver explained it all to me after Quidditch one day and when I asked Percy, he agreed. So have all the others." 

Harry summoned the rug with a quick wand twitch and dropped off the bed onto his knees, hiding his snort. He might not like McLaggen but he was getting fonder by the minute of Oliver et al. They'd been passing McLaggen around for years by the sound of it and thanks to them, Harry didn't even need to hide that he was getting off on this. It was just something _straight_ blokes did in the face of magnificence that was McLaggen.

McLaggen settled himself more comfortably on the edge of the bed and spread his legs. Harry positioned himself between them, enjoying the feel of those muscular legs against his sides. McLaggen's cock was directly in front of him and he grabbed it in one hand and brought it to his mouth. 

McLaggen slid forward, making the angle easy, and Harry went right to it. He sucked the bell-end in and then kept going, pushing it down the length of his tongue 'til he was a hairs-breadth away from gagging. Harry kept it there a moment and felt his own cock go agonizingly hard. McLaggen smelled fucking amazing, utterly male. 

Harry pulled off with a pop and scrambled his flies down. He took McLaggen in one hand and sucked him back in, bobbing up and down while he stroked himself. Fuck, this was good. This was really, brilliantly good. He went deep, rubbing his tongue hard against the underside of the cock in his mouth, loving the way it made McLaggen twist and moan.

"Lick your finger." McLaggen's breath was already coming in pants and he widened his legs a little more. "Get it really wet, Harry."

Inside his head, Harry went _er_? Outside his head, he shrugged and went with it. So far everything else McLaggen had said had been surprisingly brilliant. Harry went ahead and sucked his fingers in along with McLaggen's cock, getting them nice and wet.

"Now put them in me. Start with one, of course. I'll tell you when to go to two."

Put his finger in McLaggen? Where? Harry wished he could take a short break to consult the gay sex manual he'd never owned. He couldn't reach McLaggen's mouth and he couldn't imagine the prat wanted an index finger up his nose or jammed down his ear—

Oh. Of course. Harry was being the idiot here. McLaggen wanted a finger up the arse. Probably. Harry stalled for a moment, wetting his finger again. What if Harry guessed wrong? Would McLaggen deck him one? Would he sound like a complete berk if he asked?

But McLaggen was helpfully sliding forward until his arse was just off the bed, his cock bumping up against Harry's face. McLaggen's hips were tilted up and Harry was sure his finger was meant to go in the arsehole. 

Wherever exactly that was. Well, it wasn't like he didn't know where it was in general, he wasn't completely hopeless, but he couldn't see it. McLaggen's bollocks were big—of course—and they were blocking the view. 

Anyway, the arsehole had to be between the arse-cheeks, right? Harry put a hand behind the bollocks, feeling the smooth skin there. McLaggen gave an encouraging moan. Harry turned his hand and ran his finger back further, pushing between the cheeks until—yeah—he felt something. A little pucker, something like that. McLaggen rocked his hips and Harry felt it again and then again and then he went for it, pushing his finger in.

McLaggen moaned with delight. "Fuck. Yeah. Like that."

Harry's cock twitched in sympathetic pleasure and he dared a question. "That's, er, right then? Is it?"

"You're new to this. All blokes do it when they suck you off. Birds don't, not that I've noticed so far at least. Hannah Abbott slapped me when I told her to, can you imagine that?" McLaggen pressed down on Harry's finger. "Give me two now. Go deeper."

Harry pushed a second finger along with the first, feeling a thrill as he felt it disappear. McLaggen's thighs were shaking and he was grunting now, deep sounds of pleasure. 

Could he possibly convince McLaggen that having Harry's cock up his arse was a normal part of a 'bloke blow' too? Probably not. Even Oliver wouldn't have been able to get that one by the prat.

McLaggen shuddered with pleasure then caught his breath. "A little further in, right. Now twist them—can you feel it?"

Harry didn't know what he was feeling for but he certainly knew when he found it. McLaggen stiffened and swore.

"Get your mouth back on me. Suck me." McLaggen didn't wait for that, though. He grabbed his cock and stuffed it back between Harry's lips. 

Harry dropped his other hand back down to his cock and started stripping it, fast as he could, pushing it through his fist over and over. McLaggen was holding Harry's head, trying to keep it in just the right place and it was just so fucking much. He had a cock in his mouth and he was actually fucking a man with his fingers and he was tasting McLaggen's pre-come already flowing across his tongue.

Oh, fuck it. Harry was going to come. He knew it. Each stroke was getting more and more intense--

McLaggen stiffened first, his back arching. Harry shoved his hand in hard, feeling for that spot that made McLaggen whine and sob. 

_Unnngggghhhh_ , McLaggen groaned out, twisting himself on Harry's fingers. A flood of come poured across Harry's tongue and he swallowed it down, still working the cock in his mouth. He was so fucking close himself, he'd been distracted for a moment but he could feel the edge right there—

He fell over it, spasming with pleasure, crying out around the cock he couldn't help shoving a little farther down his throat. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It was amazing.

Finally Harry stopped and pulled off. Embarrassment flowed through as fast as his orgasm had. He had just come probably harder than he ever had in his entire life. With Cormac McLaggen's cock jammed down his throat. 

When he could make himself look up, McLaggen was beaming down at him. "Same time next week? I can't give you more than once a week—sorry, Harry, not even for you—there's just too many people who need what I can give them. It wouldn't be fair."

Harry flopped back on the rug, nodding weakly. "Sure, McLaggen. Same time next week." 

And Merlin help him, Harry thought, hurting somewhere in the place where his sense of humor met his sense of irony. He was already looking forward to it.


	8. Chapter 8

Three nights later Harry woke up from a dream where he was naked in the Great Hall with his clothes beside him in a heap. Voldemort was sneering at him with Malfoy's voice and Rita Skeeter was there too, sucking suggestively on a quill. Harry was yelling at her to stop touching his socks and—

\--and Ron was shaking him. 

Harry groaned and sat up. "What it is? It's the middle of the night!"

"It's you, mate. You were having a nightmare." Ron's eyes were sympathetic in the low _Lumos_ from his wand. "You-Know-Who again?"

"Yeah." Harry didn't want to go into details. Especially the part where Malfoy's voice was getting him strangely hard. That didn't bear thinking about. 

"Harry." Ron sat down on the side of the bed. He gave Harry a long, solemn 'Percy Weasley, Prefect' kind of look.

Harry frowned.

"About the contract—"

Ron was going there? Harry wasn't sure how he felt about it. It wasn't so much the doing—after McLaggen he was ready to admit he really fucking liked it. And he'd always been a little curious about those noises Ron made when wanking—what caused each one? Could he, Harry, force noises like that out of Ron?

It was more the afterwards. Would it change their friendship? He couldn't stand to be without Ron.

Honestly, though, hadn't things been a little strained between them ever since they came back to school? All the post-Voldemort attention, the articles, the autograph-seekers--it was like the Tri-Wizard tournament all over again. Prickliness, pointed little comments, stalking off to 'spend time with Hermione', which might have been a believable excuse if Hermione hadn't been spending every minute in the library revising for NEWTs. Vampires liked holy ground about as much as Ron liked the library.

Ever since the night of the contract, though, Ron had thawed a little. In an annoyingly superior way, like Harry was a stupid little brother he had to look out for. Reminding him to bring his broom to Quidditch practice. Telling him not to leave his things all over the floor. Checking to see if he really had all the required inches for his Charms paper. Annoying, inexplicable shite like that.

"You don't know how the contract really works." Ron wore the smug expression of someone who knew something you didn't and was going to make you sweat to get it out of them.

Harry snorted. "I've gotten reasonably acquainted with how it works over the past few weeks. Thanks for asking."

"You don't know how the BJ-giver was really picked." Ron patted Harry's leg. "You know it wasn't really random, mate. You've figured that much out, right?"

Harry blinked. "What are you talking about? It was a lottery. Everyone stood an equal chance of losing."

Ron laughed. It had a bitter edge to it—the sound of long, painfully acquired experience—and Harry's stomach started to sink. 

"The twins fixed it?" Harry pulled his knees up to his chest. 'How? Was it the wand—was it set to skip me over? Or was it the contract itself? Was it charmed to write my name?"

Ron shrugged. "Don't know exactly. But it's always something with the twins. I told you not to do it."

"But you don’t know for sure," Harry pressed, though he knew truth when he heard it. Part of him wanted to say _no, impossible, they're my friends, they wouldn't do that to me_. The other part—the sensible part—blew him a raspberry and said _they'd fuck you over in a hot heartbeat_. Trusting the twins with a legal document was like asking a niffler to guard your galleons. What had he been thinking?

Ron pulled his legs up and sat cross-legged on the bed, leaning forward. "I don't know exactly what they did but Harry, remember our boggarts? Your greatest fear came from something a Dementor did to you. My greatest fear came from something the _twins_ did to me. Honestly, if they ever take it into their minds to be Dark Lords, we're all sunk."

"If I kill them," Harry said slowly, "do you think I'll still be invited to Christmas dinner?"

Ron snickered. "I bet you would. It's not like Mum and Dad don't know what hell-spawn they created. Besides, you're another son to them now."

"Is that, er, a problem?" Harry felt his palms go a little slick. He never talked about this with Ron but it didn't mean they weren't both aware of it. "I always got the impression you already had more brothers than you wanted."

Ron looked mulish for a moment. Then he seemed to think of something and he stretched out on the bed beside Harry. Stole his pillow too and plumped it underneath his head, getting comfortable. "I've got enough older brothers. You're my first _younger_ brother. Stupider, too."

"I'm not stupid!"

Ron waved that away. "You signed a Weasley-Twin magic contract." His hand, when he dropped it, came to rest on Harry's thigh. "That makes you stupid by definition."

"What, er, else did the twins do to you? In their role of older brothers, I mean." Harry stretch his legs out next to Ron's, cautiously. "Are there particular duties of younger brotherhood I should know about?"

"Funny you should mention that." Ron's look was turning ever more superior—and happy too. His hand had moved up Harry's body, resting now on his hip. "Speaking about the twins and what they like to get up to—"

Harry took his courage in hand and rolled over, coming face to face with Ron, who had turned toward him. _Don't stop now_ , he told himself, and kept moving until his lips were pressing against Ron's. 

Ron snorted and pulled back. "They don't kiss me on the mouth, that's for one thing." Ron put his hands on Harry's shoulders and gave him a gentle shove downwards. "They made me go a little lower."

Harry blushed and drew in a fast breath as he wiggled lower. OK, no kissing. He couldn't spare any thought on embarrassment, though, as Ron was already pushing his PJ bottoms down and his cock was springing out, half-hard and thickening quickly.

If he'd had time to think about it, Harry would have felt shy and awkward and all kinds of things like that. As it was, he really only had time to think, _it's thick_ before Ron was pushing it into his mouth.

Harry took a quick suck then settled himself between Ron's legs and started to bob his head up and down in earnest. Ron's hand tangled in his hair, encouraging him on, little groans starting to escape from his throat. A salty taste met his tongue on each swipe around the top of the head, along with a buck of the hips.

 _Ron_ , Harry thought a little wildly. _I'm sucking off my best mate_. Who didn't seem to think there was anything particularly weird about it, who thought it made them even closer, more like real brothers, which maybe he had the twins to thank for. Right before he murdered them. 

Unless maybe it wasn't the twins who had started it? What about Bill, what about Charlie—had Ron had to service them too? Was that the duty of a younger brother in the Weasley household and fuck if the idea of a Burrow Christmas hadn't just gotten a lot more dick-hardening in concept.

Harry pushed cock down his throat almost frantically at the thought of seeing himself on his knees in Ron's old bedroom, Chudley Cannons posters flapping on the walls while he waited for the door to open, to see who it was he had to suck off next. 

Ron's hips bucked up. "Fuck, Harry, yeah. Don't stop. That's good." He whined a little too, a sound that went higher the faster Harry went. That sound—Harry had heard it late at night before, right before the slapping sounds lost their rhythm. Right before the groans turned into grunts then into choked gasps of need—

Harry was rubbing himself off on the sheets, he realized. Some of that whine was his and fuck, he was going to come with Ron's cock stuffed in his mouth. He couldn't do that, it was too weird and he grasped for something to bring himself off the boil. Hermione, he thought, before his rhythm could falter and Ron could look down and ask what the matter was. Hermione has done this.

Harry's cock deflated. Not all the way, but enough maybe to answer the Neville/Luna question. In the combined girl/bloke sex-mad rubbing themselves raw image, it was the Nev parts that did it for him. Not the tit, so much as the male hand on the tit. 

So there. That was some information, right? He was getting somewhere and he was not going to think about the way Ron's foreskin had pulled all the way back and how Ron was humping up into Harry's mouth, way past trying to be polite or gentle or anything but intent on forcing his way into a hot wet hole.

Ron stiffened. His hands tightened hard in Harry's hair. "There. Right there. Suck me. Faster. Oh fuck, oh fuck, that's perfect, I'm going to—"

He came. Right in Harry's mouth. Harry sputtered and swallowed, bitter fluid going down his throat and out his mouth, both, as Ron's cock kept slicking back and forth across his tongue, chasing those last few spurts of pleasure. 

"Oi," Ron said when he'd finally stopped panting and taken a look over at Harry, now lying back on the bed beside him again. He poked a finger in the direction of Harry's bits. "Don't be a bloody martyr. Get yourself off too."

"You're not offering?"

"My name's not on the contract, now is it?" 

Harry shot him a look then kind of shrugged to himself and grinned and reached into his PJ bottoms. It didn't take long, just a half-dozen fast tugs, aided by the feel of a long-limbed male body next to his own. He breathed his climax into Ron's shoulder, shaking against his best friend's skin, and came down slowly, warmly, comfortably. 

A moment later, Ron was rolling out of bed, yawning as he stood up.

Harry sat up, sheets clutched to his chest, feeling a little like an abandoned princess in one of those awful books Hermione pretended she didn't read. "You, er, go away as soon as you're done? Is that how it works with your brothers?"

Ron climbed into his own bed with a happy sigh. "Hell yes, Harry. Faster you get out of sight, the better, especially when it comes to the twins. Hang around and they're likely to get a second wind." His face scrunched up in memory. "Or start testing things on you." 

Harry nodded and lay back down. He hadn't wanted Ron to stay, not really. It was just that a bed that had held two could feel suddenly overlarge when there was only one left in it. Too much empty white sheet, not enough warm flesh, even if it wasn't really Ron he wanted to fall asleep next to. "Got it. Kick 'em out as soon as you can." 

"That's the spirit," Ron said, words coming more slowly as sleep took him. "Fight for your space and fight for your dinner and fight your way out of whatever magic contracts your nearest and dearest have trapped you with. Watch out for spiders and welcome to the real brotherhood of Weasleys. You're one of us at last."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and feedback always deeply appreciated--and they keep the words flowing!


	9. Chapter 9

The Room of Requirement. That's where the twins had been spending their afternoons, Ron had said, not that he knew what they were getting up to in there. So that's where Harry went as soon as classes were over for the day, legging it up there fast as he could, a white-hot fury building in his chest. The twins had tricked him. They had taken advantage of him. They had _cheated_ him.

He barreled through the door, trying not to think about the worst part of it. They must have been laughing at him from the beginning--must have snickered themselves sick with every cock he sucked. How could they do that to him?

The door slammed behind him, a hollow sound in a suddenly huge space. Shelves filled the room in every direction, layered two, three deep with every manner of junk, all covered in a thick layer of dust. The room itself stretched to the horizon, looking like some kind of ur-antique store, some platonic ideal of a kingdom of junk.

Harry sneezed and goggled simultaneously, wincing as his eyelids tried to open wide and snap shut at the same time. He didn't see the twins but he did see, over there, a marble bust, and a little closer there was a pile of empty sherry bottles—

Impossible. The Room of Hidden Things had been destroyed. A shiver crawled down his spine, reached his arse, then turned around and crawled right back up. The last time he'd been in here, fiend-fyre had been sweeping the room with a predator's speed. Malfoy had been plastered to his back, arms around Harry's waist, and they'd barely made it out of here with their lives.

Sweat trickled down Harry's back. It wasn't hot in here, not now, but he couldn’t be here without smelling singeing hair and smoking wood and remembering air so hot it had burned his lungs. Remembering Crabbe, who hadn't made it out, who'd blistered into nothingness as the flames took him.

Harry swallowed. He'd forgotten all of that as the months had passed. Well, he'd told himself he'd forgotten. Wasn't there something he'd kept fresh though--the feel of male arms around his waist, a male body pressed to his back? Hadn't that been what had led him to play the twins's game, in the end?

"Very funny," he whispered to the Room of Hidden Things. "I get it now, okay? I know what I want. It's not hidden anymore." Well, at least not to himself. He still didn’t see how it was anyone else's business.

Voices came from somewhere off to the side, the unmistakable sound of the twins talking over each other, rapid as one thought following another. Harry headed in that direction, trying to get the anger back but really only feeling the hurt.

There they were. Harry spotted them at last just past a shelf full of glass eyes, between a pile of feathered hats and a neat stack of unstuffed teddy bears. They were standing in rapt concentration before a pair of dark wood cabinets and—this couldn't be good--looking rather pleased with themselves. A desiccated apple lay on the floor in front of the cabinets, next to the yellow-feathered body of a dead canary.

"That's them fixed, then, isn't it?" said the one who surely was George. He had a slightly softer lilt to his voice and if he had turned, the look in his eye, before he fucked Harry six ways to Sunday, would have been a little more apologetic than Fred's.

"Now we just have to get them in place—"

"They're heavy—"

Shrink them?"

"Might damage the magic—"

"Levitate them?"

"A bit conspicuous, mate—"

Harry cleared his throat. 

The twins turned. They smiled, not quite as one. Rather, it started with Fred's mouth and spread to George's, like a wave rippling through water. 

Harry meant to start in on them right away. Get to the matter of the contract. Instead he found himself waving a hand at the room and saying, "This is impossible. Nothing can survive fiend-fyre. The Room of Hidden Things was destroyed."

"So?" Fred—it had to be Fred, his shrug was absolutely infuriating. "The Room of Hidden Things is part of the Room of Requirement. We just required it to stop being destroyed." 

"That's not—" Harry shook himself. The room wasn't what was important here. "The contract," he said, squaring his shoulders and standing up straight. "You tricked me."

Fred laughed. "Of course we did, young Harry. Took you long enough, by the way. Was expecting you to come charging in days ago, mad as hell and asking what we'd done."

The anger roared back in, fast as fiend-fyre. "You _cheated_ me."

"Never," George said firmly. His head tipped to the side and the look in his eyes had turned curious. "We admit the ah, giver, specified in the contract wasn't chosen randomly. But it wasn't unfair. We just didn't get the result we expected."

Fred advanced a step or two, coming into Harry's space. He smelled of sweat and dust and cedar and his lips were quirked up in amusement. "You got what you wanted, Harry. What's there to fuss about?"

"I wanted a fair chance to win. Not a guaranteed loss! You wanted to use me! You wanted everyone to use me!" He felt stupid, childish, whingey as he said it, which wasn't fair, because he had every right to complain about this. More than a right—an obligation. Someone had to stand up to the twins when they had gone too far.

"You got exactly what you wanted and we know it," George stepped closer too, moving to the side so Harry was nearly between the two of them, "because that's how the contract worked, Harry."

Fred wrapped a hand in Harry's school tie, tugging him closer. "It was my present to George. Well, and to myself too. But we love you, Harry. We don’t mind if you pinched the present for yourself."

Harry pulled back until the tie was a hard strap across the back of his neck. Red and gold tightened around Fred's hand, but he didn't let go of either the fabric or his smile.

"What do you mean?" Harry said finally, because if he waited for the twins to stop enjoying his confusion, he might be here forever. This is what a tenterhook is, he thought suddenly, weirdly, and probably inaccurately. It felt like a tenterhook, at any rate. "Just spit it out. How did the contract work?"

George moved behind him, not pressed up against him, just close enough to run a hand through Harry's hair and down past his ear. "One by one, the wand picked the bloke who most hated the idea of sucking cock. One by one, it counted down to the bloke who most wanted to get on his knees for the rest of us." 

"What a boring term it was shaping up to be." Fred played with the tie, jerking it back and forth. "Poor Georgie here was missing London. Couldn't get up to his usual tricks, now could he? Didn't think anyone would want to blow the blokes in the dorm more than he did. Not our fault that you out cock-slutted a massive slag like my dear brother here—we couldn't be expected to see that coming, now could we? "

"Oi! You were going to have some fun too, Mr. F. Weasley, Esquire. Fill in for me, when and where you wanted." George's breath ghosted past Harry's ear, making him shiver. "Many hands make light work after all."

The twins kept talking, kept petting him too, but in between them Harry had gone mute. Cold fury was giving way to hot embarrassment, forming something like a storm front in the region of his stomach. Dean—he'd been out first. Dean must really have hated the idea of sucking blokes off. Neville next, then Seamus. Seamus might have sucked cock before but he hadn't liked it. Not like Harry.

His chest felt a little tight, like the humiliation building in his belly was swelling and swelling, pushing upward into his lungs and making it hard to take a breath. McLaggen—he'd been out next. He liked getting sucked obviously, but Harry couldn't honestly say that he could see McLaggen willingly do anything to please a partner, other than offer up his own nicely toned flesh for appreciation. Then it had been Ron—

"You're lying," Harry said, feeling a wild hope ignite inside him. "Ron was the last one out before it was you and me, George. You can't tell me Ron wants to suck cock. I know he doesn't."

Fred snorted. His mouth was close enough now that he could almost have stuck his tongue out and licked a line along Harry's cheek, if he'd wanted to. "Ron's a good friend to you. Credit to the Weasleys, he is. He doesn't want to suck cock—don't we know it, George!—but he didn't want to leave you behind to sign any contract of ours." 

"I never thought it would be you." George's words were soft and whispered, just by Harry's ear. "Never thought you'd edge me out for the win."

"The loss, you mean." Harry held himself rigid. He felt sick, absolutely nauseous, helplessly weak. The only thing keeping himself upright was the knowledge that he couldn't bear to drop to his knees in front of the twins. They knew what he wanted and they knew how much he'd wanted it and he couldn't stand to be known like that, not at all. All he'd wanted was some fucking privacy to figure things out and all this time they'd practically been standing in the middle of his brain. 

"It's not a loss if you want to do it, love." George wrapped his arms around Harry and gave him a little squeeze. "And it's not the end of the world if the people who love you know what you like."

"Anyway, there's no need to look as glum as all that." Fred turned suddenly and waved a hand at the twin cabinets. "We haven't got time to take advantage of you, not that you're not a darling little crumpet all waiting to be bathed in our best butter. It's just we've got—"

"Consider it our apology to you--"

"Revenge is a dish best served wet—"

"Cold and wet, dear brother. Cold and wet! And we'll give our Harry here the very best seat in the castle, to watch our righteous glory and enjoy!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments keep the chapters flowing and are always deeply appreciated!


	10. Chapter 10

The next day Harry stood by the lake, shifting nervously from foot to foot, shivering despite his heavy cloak. He should leave. This was a bad idea. There was no situation involving the twins that ever wasn't a bad idea. It was a definitional thing, he was coming to realize. If you took your average dark lord's disregard for human dignity, added a sense of humor, and divided by two, you got Fred and George.

And yet here he was. They'd told him to meet them here by the lake just as dinner was starting in the Great Hall and curiosity had overcome caution. Plus, they'd promised this was their way of apologizing. How could he not turn up for an apology?

The air cracked and a house elf popped into existence next to him.

Harry startled and his heart kind of wiggled in his chest but he tried to give the elf a friendly nod. Sometimes he wished house-elves could be taught to send a warning chime first, some kind of a count-down type thing: like five, four, three, two, one—elf!

"Does sir want the cabinet right here, sir? By the lake, sir?" The house elf wrung its hands. "Crobby is thinking this is a strange place for furnituring, sir."

"That's the ticket, Crobby," came a voice behind him. Fred and George had arrived, apparently. "This is right where we want it."

"Crobby has put the first cabinet in the dormitory, as Crobby was told. Crobby is thinking a dormitory is a better place for cabinets than shore-lines are, sir." Crobby's look was turning dark. "Crobby is knowing sand is no good for mahogany, sir."

Fred leaned in towards the elf. " _Harry Potter_ wants the cabinet brought here. You don't want to upset the great Harry Potter, do you?"

Harry Potter himself went "err?" Because, really, what?

That had done the trick, though, because before Harry could turn his 'err' into a more cohesive sentiment, Crobby had popped away.

"Keep it simple, we realized," George said conversationally, just behind Fred. "We couldn't move furniture around without people asking inconvenient questions, but house elves can. We just _Mobilied_ the cabinets into the corridor outside the Room of Requirement and," he snapped his fingers—

Crobby reappeared, popping in next to them with one of the large dark cabinets in tow. Its silver scrollwork flashed in the fading light of the day and it wobbled on the sand when he set it down.

"You're going to need this," Fred said. He waved his wand and a bubblehead charm formed around Harry's head.

"Wait, what—" Harry squinted through the faint haze of the charm. 

"Oh, and this," George said, adding a charm that would keep Harry warm in the lake. 

"I don't want to go swimming," Harry said, as if that mattered. Just don't sign anything, he told himself. It can't get too bad if you don't sign anything.

Fred was already waving his wand at the cabinet and his smile had passed grin and headed into the realm of the frankly alarming. One final _swish_ and a firm _flick_ and the doors of the cabinet burst open. It didn't stop there, though—metal groaned and wood snapped and splinters flew as the doors tore at the seams. Harry felt a hand on his collar, George pulling him backwards, and not a moment before he was safely out of the way, the doors ripped completely free. They fell to the sand with a heavy plop, one after the other, fluttering a bit then stilling, like wings pulled from a fly.

"I'm guessing we didn't like that piece of furniture?" Harry shook himself, then stuck his hands in his pockets and reviewed potential exonerating statements he could give McGonagall. "Too dark? Too heavy? Prefer Danish Modern?"

"This is one of the Vanishing Cabinets, Harry." George gave a door a vicious kick.

"Oh. Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize." Harry winced. If it weren't for the Vanishing Cabinets, the Death Eaters would never have gotten into Hogwarts, and Greyback would never have been able to ruin Bill's handsome face. No wonder the twins bore a grudge, though really, if it was anyone's fault, it was Malfoy's. Still, if the twins wanted to rip it apart, Harry doubted even McGonagall would care. "Well, I mean, right. Ruin it completely if you like. Make it never work again."

"Oh, it'll still work," George said abstractly, as Fred levitated the now door-less cabinet over the lake, guiding it toward deeper water. He handed Harry a small metal token. "Take this. It'll show you the way to the treat we've got for you.

"Go on," Fred said. He flicked his wand again and snapped out the spell _Harmonia Nectere Passus_. The cabinet took on a faint glow of activation then Fred flicked his wand again and the cabinet dropped, smacking the water with a sound like a cannonball. Slowly its chilly glow disappeared into the lake. "Not too much time now, I don't think." 

Harry hesitated. He didn't want to go in the water, even with the charms in place. What he really wanted was to go back to the castle and into the Great Hall and have his dinner sitting beside Ron and Hermione. Hermione would nag him about his study schedule and Ron would chime in with something older-brotherish and he'd enjoy it and ignore it in equal quantities as he shoveled beef stew into his mouth.

It didn't matter. Harry still felt guilty about that night the Death Eaters came—he should have figured out what Malfoy was up to, he should have stopped it, it was his fault somehow that Bill had been hurt—and so he shrugged off his cloak, gave the twins a little wave, and stepped into the water.

It chilled him to the bone within minutes, charm or no charm. The token in his hand tugged him downward and he started swimming, letting it guide the way. Harry touched his wand and whispered a spell and his eyes adjusted, letting him see in the ever-more-murky light as the token led him deeper and deeper into the lake.

Somewhere ahead of him was the mermish village but the token was keeping him closer to the castle, going down rather than out. Just as well, Harry figured. That cabinet was probably even now sinking toward the village and he'd hate to have to explain to a bunch of trident-armed natural swimmers why there was a cabinet perched atop their town hall.

Deeper still and his arms were tiring and his ears popping when he finally saw a light up ahead. The token tugged excitedly—that had to be his destination. He kicked a little harder, forcing some more cooperation out of numbed legs, and his heart sped up as he realized where he was. 

That light—it was shining through glass. And the glass was the glass of the Slytherin dorm. The token was warm with satisfaction, having evidently delivered him to the right place, and Harry pressed himself up against the leaded glass with only the smallest amount of shame. What was it that the twins wanted him to see?

Malfoy? Harry licked his lips and grabbed an underwater plant to hold himself in place, wrapping it around his waist to free his hands to touch the glass. He pulled himself closer with a little sticky charm on his fingers and—yes—he could see perfectly into a Slytherin dorm room. Five beds, all draped in emerald green, lit by silver lanterns hanging from a stone ceiling.

It was empty, except for Malfoy, who wasn't wanking. Not that Harry wanted to see _that_. Except, maybe that would have been a good apology from the twins, arranging for him to catch Malfoy fucking his own fist, choking out his relief all by himself. Harry could have watched and then he could have taunted Malfoy with little details and let him get completely paranoid about how Harry had seen him—

But no. Malfoy was standing near the window, his profile still as bas relief. Harry might have worried Malfoy would see him if he turned his head, but all of the git's attention was focused on the cabinet that hulked against the wall.

His wardrobe? Was the vain beast running late for dinner because he couldn't decide what to wear? Here's a hint, Harry thought with a twist of the lips: try the school robes. Only a Malfoy could dawdle over getting dressed in a place which had a required uniform.

Though, honestly, Harry couldn't remember seeing Malfoy in the Great Hall yet this term. He'd skulked back to school along with the rest of the Slytherins, though if anything he'd looked even more pale and worn than the rest of them. Harry might have even seen Malfoy get pushed a little, here and there, seen him insulted and ignored. Harry didn't care. It served Malfoy right if even his own House wanted to bully him and who cared if he didn't feel he could sit down to dinner with the rest of them? Maybe Parkinson would bring him back a roll or two if he was lucky.

Malfoy's hand came up to trace the silver scrollwork and Harry realized, suddenly, and possibly a bit stupidly, that of course this was the second vanishing cabinet, the pair to the one the twins had ripped the doors off and dumped in the lake. Malfoy was trembling as he touched it, Harry realized, and Harry almost turned to swim away. If anything, this was even more intimate a moment than if Malfoy had been in the middle of a screamingly massive climax. Malfoy looked frozen and bloodless and when he swallowed, his throat tightened with misery.

Then anger rushed through him. What right did the git have to quake as if he were seeing a ghost? What right did _Malfoy_ have to let tears trickle down his face? He was the one who had used the cabinets to betray them, after all.

The dark wood doors were shaking. Had the twins put a boggart in there? Harry still didn't understand what they'd intended with all this, but he was just about ready to go. Any minute. 

Malfoy had his wand up now, pointing it at the cabinet as if he thought it would attack. Harry didn't completely blame him—it was shaking ever harder now and something wet was seeping out its seams.

Malfoy, as Harry watched, seemed to take his courage in hand. He readied his wand and he reached out with a shaking hand and undid the latch—

Water exploded out of the cabinet, a murky roiling wave that slammed into Malfoy and swept him off his feet. He tumbled with it, wand torn from his hand, water tipping him head over heels. He smacked hard into the end of a bed and Harry winced in sympathy as Malfoy lay there dazed and shaking, water pouring over him. 

More and more water, Harry realized, face pressed up against the glass. The open vanishing cabinet in the lake, he realized—that's where it was coming from. What went in one vanishing cabinet came out the other and the twins had ripped the doors off the sending cabinet and dumped it into the lake. There was a whole lake's worth of water waiting to pour into the Slytherin dorms, as surely as if the castle wall itself had been breached.

Cold and wet revenge, that's what the twins had arranged and they thought letting Harry watch it happen would make a great apology. Maybe he'd have liked it too, in theory, but here, watching it—he was feeling sicker and sicker by the moment. The floor was first slick with water then it disappeared beneath the rushing wave. Malfoy pulled himself to his feet but the water level was rising fast and already it was halfway up the bed legs.

The dorm room door. It was shut. Harry blinked and checked—yes, it was definitely shut—as nauseous fear seized him. The door was shut and the room was filling fast with water and Malfoy didn't even have his wand. The wretched git was going to drown right in front of his eyes and fuck, he was going to kill the twins. This wasn't what they had intended, he was sure, but that's what was going to happen. He could almost see the body drifting limp in a room turned into an aquarium, pale and slack and oh so very dead.

Malfoy was rubbing his head—that had looked like a nasty knock—but he was searching frantically for his wand. Get the fucking door open before the water pressure is too high, Harry wanted to scream, but his telepathy was sorely lacking. Harry grabbed his wand and pointed it at the window and yelled _Confringo_.

Nothing happened. The sound of his own spell echoed in his ears but, of course, the windows must have been spelled against any curse. Couldn't afford to have breakable windows in rooms full of students, after all. Malfoy was stuck in there and fuck if the water wasn't already washing over the beds, making the hangings twist and billow in the waves, and Harry was stuck out here, with a front row seat to a death by drowning.

It hurt. It panicked him and it might have been ten thousand times worse because it was Malfoy, which wasn't a thought he could bear to examine right now. That body being currently battered by a wave, knocked over again and again each time he tried to stand—that body had been pressed against his own and he had always thought that maybe, maybe some time it would happen again in better circumstance, which was a stupid, stupid thought given who they both were and holy shite, what was he going to do?

He had to get in there. The other cabinet. Harry turned from the window, yanking himself free, and swam like mad for the mer-village. His brain tried to calculate rates of water flow versus the size of the room and then triangulate that against how long the average human could hold his breath but the only answer it could spit out was now, now, now, get there now.

Finally, there the village was, ahead of him. Vague shadows resolved into clearer shapes of underwater houses, spread apart at first then closer and closer together and he had to be near to where he'd seen the first cabinet fall. The water churned in front of him and a merman appeared, spear pointed directly at Harry. 

Harry dodged, slipping past him, twisting to avoid the spear as it thrust forward. The whole village was stirring but up ahead he could see the cabinet perched atop a green-columned building. Grindylows skittered past him, grabbing with sticky, sharp-nailed hands, and more and more mer-people were pouring into their streets—

He stunned an official looking merman, pushed off a rooftop, and swam with every particle of strength he had. The closer he got to the cabinet, the easier it was--he was being sucked in, he realized, as surely as if he was being poured down a drain. One last kick of his nearly exhausted legs and he was slamming forward into the cabinet, eyes nearly blinded by its strong blue glow. He raised a hand, unable to convince his body that he wasn't just going to brain himself on the rear of the cabinet.

His stomach twisted and his world turned inside out with a sensation that was half apparition and half what milk must feel like when it's being squirted out an udder. He only had time to wonder if the wardrobe to Narnia was really a vanishing cabinet, which was an odd thought for an odd in-between place, then he was tumbling out the other cabinet, borne on the unending wave still pouring into the Slytherin dorm. The water foamed and frothed around his bubblehead charm and he flipped head over tip, caught himself on a bedpost, lost the bedpost, and was swept against the far wall.

He hit the wall with an oof but it didn't hurt quite as much as he'd expected. The thing he'd hit was softer and paler than dungeon stone and it was standing on its toes to hold its head above a rapidly rising water level. It was also so soaked Harry could feel every line of its lean male body and finally his mind registered the fact that he was plastered against a very scared, but not yet drowned Draco Malfoy.

"Potter?" Malfoy said with a wild look in his eye. A little sob escaped his throat and his head dropped back against the wall. "Harry- _fucking_ -Potter? I should have known. Who else would do this to me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback keeps the chapters coming and is deeply appreciated!


	11. Chapter 11

"The door," Harry said, trying to prioritize with his head rather than his cock. His cock was saying this was a rather brilliant position to have suddenly found itself in, and hey, let's spend a minute or two rubbing up against a tantalizingly wet Malfoy. "We have to get the door open."

"Oh, open the _door_. I never would have thought of that. Is that what you brought to the war, a keen sense of the absolutely obvious?" Malfoy banged his head against the wall a time or two but didn't let go of Harry. "The doors down here are charmed to seal shut if there's water pouring into a room. Flooding in a dungeon is serious business, Potter."

"What about the people in the room? You just let them drown?" _Slytherins_ , Harry thought. "That's horrible!"

Malfoy let his head fall forward until their foreheads met with a clunk. "No, Potter, it's _sensible_. The founders thought if there was water coming in, it would be through a broken window. Which the students could then swim out of. Understand? Are there any other safety measures regarding living under a lake that you'd like to cover before our imminent deaths?"

"We're not going to die, you berk." Harry tried to make that sound authoritative. It came out a little squeakier than he would have liked—the water was cold and it was starting to tickle his bollocks. Still, some of his panic had faded away. Malfoy was alive, Harry had gotten to him, no one had drowned yet, and there had to be a way out of this.

"When your room-mates come back," Harry said, after a moment more of thought, "they won't be able to open the door either. They'll call for help and someone will get us out."

Malfoy sneered. "Dinner just started. By the time they come back, find out something's wrong, get help, and get us out, we'll be blue, wrinkly, and very, very dead. Try again." 

"Fine. I've got a bubblehead charm on. I'll do one on you too and we'll be able to last until they get us out of here."

Malfoy sighed like he did it professionally—long and weary and full of resignation. His chest rose and fell interestingly against Harry's as he breathed. "Bubblehead charms only last an hour. Imbecile."

"So I'll do it again and again until they get us out of here." Harry knew he really didn't need to be having this conversation while pressed tight against Malfoy. The water rushing in was loud, sure, and it was swirling and tugging at their legs but really, he could move back an inch or two at least. Not that he was going to. "The slightest little problem and you give up? What, if you can't hire someone to do it, it can't be done?"

"Well I certainly wouldn't hire _you_ ," Malfoy said brightly, letting his arms hang over Harry's shoulders like they were the oldest and closest of friends. "Seeing as how you obviously don't know how bubblehead charms work."

Harry waited. If there was a flaw in his plan, he was sure Malfoy would point it out. Not that there was.

"Those of us who have to pass our NEWTS with knowledge rather than fame understand that bubblehead charms enclose a pocket of air, right? The pocket of air surrounding your head, to be precise. The air which in a not inconsiderable amount of time will be nonexistent in this room. If, while we're drowning, you wish to enclose our heads in an extra bubble of water, however, then it's a marvelous charm. Go right ahead."

Oh. Harry scrunched his face, trying to remember anything else about the charm even as that particular hope died a messy death. "It doesn't pull air from somewhere else?"

"No, Potter. Air cannot apparate in. Just like we can't apparate out." Malfoy let the fake bright look go out. "Which is why we're going to die."

"Fine, so my first idea won't work." Harry looked down at the water, which was now up to his waist, then back at the cabinet it was still pouring out of. Ok, he had another plan—

"We use magic to close the cabinet doors, we might not be strong enough to push them closed physically but if we use a force charm—" 

Malfoy was leaning his forehead against Harry's again. "Twat. Once again you display a complete lack of understanding of the magical object in question." The look on his face was almost fond, though he was probably just fond of the chance to call Harry a twat. "Think about it." 

Harry scowled and thought about it. Vanishing Cabinets had been used to escape from Death Eaters, right? But you wouldn't want someone at the other end to be able to accidentally interrupt your arrival, so once the connection was established, it probably couldn't be stopped until everything had come through, which in this case was the entire contents of the lake—

"Destroy the cabinet completely," Harry said, fast as the thought hit him. "No cabinet, no connection."

Malfoy was already shaking his head. "Won't work. They're layered in protection charm on protection charm. Indestructible, at least in the time we have."

The water was over his waist now. Not quite to nipple height but definitely at 'get a good plan right now' height. 

Malfoy pulled him a little closer. Neither of them were talking about the 'wrapped close as lovers' part of this, but there it was. "Potter. Get me my wand."

Hope surged in Harry's chest. Had Malfoy thought of something? " _Accio, Malfoy's wand_ ," he called out. 

Nothing happened for a moment then a pale wand leaped out of the water like a thin silver fish. It hit Harry's hand with a wet slap and he passed it over to Malfoy. "So? What's your plan?"

Malfoy wrapped his hand around his wand and dropped his head to Harry's shoulder. His words came out muffled by wet sweater. "I don't have one. I just wanted to die with my wand in my hand."

Harry tightened his grip, solely for the purpose of making it easier to growl in Malfoy's ear. Not to comfort him. "I've come up with four plans and you haven't thought of a single one! So who's the useless berk here, huh?"

Malfoy lifted his head. "You've come up with four stupid, useless plans and I've had to spend valuable time explaining why they won't work. So you're the berk."

Harry went ahead and wrapped his arms fully around Malfoy, because Malfoy was shivering and it was the right thing to do. Plus, something about body heat, right? "At least you got to spend the last hour of your life telling me how stupid and wrong I am. That's got to be pretty nice."

Malfoy swayed in the water and kind of laughed. "Should I even ask why my dorm room is filling with lake water and why you're here too but you don't have any way out either? Is that a profitable use of my last minutes or do I just really not want to know? It's not like there haven't been plenty of other things, major things, that nobody's bothered to explain to me until it's too late to make a difference."

"The short answer is the twins—"

Malfoy nodded, as if 'the twins' explained everything. Which it pretty much did.

"The long answer—" Harry stopped. The long answer involved the words 'magic sex contract' and there was no way he was going there. "The long answer's not worth getting into right now. Except I didn't do this to you and I'm, er, very sorry it happened."

Malfoy didn't answer. Just sniffed a bit. Harry wasn't sure if it was a scoffing type sniff, or a teary sniff, or just a water-up-the-nose type sniff.

Anyway, the water was now rippling across Harry's nipples, and it was chilling and scary and uncomfortably stimulating all at once. "I'd, er, rather spend my final moments doing something else. Not that I think these are our final moments, okay? I'm just taking a quick mental break on making plans."

Harry really meant that. He hadn't survived Voldemort just to die from a stupid Weasley prank. That would make the worst, most ridiculous footnote in the history books since Winifred the Wonderful defeated the Five Troll Army Invasion then choked to death on a ham sandwich while signing autographs.

Malfoy eyed him warily. "What did you have in mind?"

Winifred…trolls…ham sandwiches…choking to death…autographs… Harry ran through every thought he'd just had in his mind, none of which were things he wanted to discuss. Ever. What he'd really wanted was—

Fuck it. If these _were_ going to be his last few minutes on earth, he wanted to know what it felt like to kiss Draco Malfoy.

Harry leaned forward until their lips brushed. Malfoy's lips were smooth and, surprisingly for the circumstances, not wet. They quivered uncertainly under the press of Harry's mouth and then slowly the kiss was returned, lips softening, head tilting to let Harry come closer.

Harry brought his hand up to Malfoy's neck and cupped his head, leaning in to deepen the kiss. From the nipples down Malfoy's body was cold and wet, his sodden clothes plastered to his thin form. His lips were cold too. But they opened, tentative and unsure. Harry wondered when that had happened—the Malfoy he knew from before sixth year had never seemed unsure of anything. Harry's tongue licked out before he could stop it, wanting to taste and feel. And past those cold lips, Malfoy's mouth was warm. Harry's cock stiffened. Despite the water, despite the danger—or maybe because of it. Or maybe just because it saw no reason not to celebrate being locked in an embrace with a lean male body.

He pushed into Malfoy's mouth and for a moment there was more of that uncertainty, then their heads were tilting and Harry was falling forward into a tangle of hands in hair and warm welcoming tongue, and hips that pressed eagerly into his own. There was an answering hardness swelling there and his cock was completely on board with forgetting about the whole death-by-drowning thing in favor of the need that was seizing hold of him, spiraling up from his groin and making him shake with pleasure.

Basically, it was a bloody fantastic snog and Harry hated to end it but—

"I have an idea," he said, forcing himself to pull away, panting. "See? Letting me take a break from thinking worked perfectly. We can--"

Malfoy groaned. "I'm about to die in water fish have _peed_ in. It's undignified enough without having to spend my last few minutes listening to Gryffindorish prattle about impossible escapes."

"No, hear me out." Harry's heart was pounding double-time from combined fear and lust but he thought he had it this time. Water swirled around his neck. "See, the windows might be specially reinforced against breaking but why would they do that to a dorm room door? Its edges are charmed shut but it won't be charmed to resist a concentrated _Reducto_ in the middle. We'll smash it to pieces."

"A combined _Reducto_ on the door?" Malfoy's head tilted consideringly, cheek coming perilously close to the ever-rising water.

Harry's heart beat faster. They didn't have much time left but Malfoy couldn't think of any reason this wouldn't work and he was nearly as smart as Hermione. He grabbed Malfoy's hand and tugged him until they stood directly in front of the door. "Get your wand ready. They'll work underwater, don't worry about that, just put everything you have into it."

Malfoy nodded stiffly. He raised his wand and pointed it at the door. "We need to concentrate our combined magic on the smallest possible area. Drill a hole and the water will rush through, helping us break it."

"On my mark," Harry raised his wand, then stopped. "Wait. You're right." He shoved his wand back into his waistband. Malfoy was looking at him questioningly, pale and frightened but determined now. "I know the best way to concentrate our magic."

Harry moved behind him, wrapped one arm around Malfoy's waist, and covered his hand on the wand. "I think I proved your wand works for me," he said, not able to help the smile that curved his lips up as he pressed them to Malfoy's neck. "Come on now. The wand just directs the magic. We'll let our power flow through it together."

He felt more than saw Malfoy's nod. Fingers tightened under his on the wand and at the same time, they both breathed out a firm _Reducto_. Magic rose to his call and poured down his arm and out the wand. Malfoy's magic bubbled around it, lighter than his own somehow, and together they swirled out the end of the wand and slammed into the door.

Sparks flew even underwater. It looked like a video Uncle Vernon had brought home once, something where they were supposed to admire the drills but all Harry had really noticed was the welder's flame, cutting a path through steel with fire.

The door might as well be steel, Harry thought a moment later as not even the smallest hole had appeared. What the hell did the Slytherins want their doors to withstand, a battering ram? There were flimsier portcullises, he bet, but he kept his magic strong and flowing. Malfoy was leaning back into him, open now in a way Harry had never seen, letting the stronger flow of Harry's magic pull his own out. Their magic was connecting, merging. It was... right. Being wrapped around Malfoy, with Malfoy pressing back against him, was right. If they ever managed to get out of here, Harry wasn't going to waste any more time. Every cell in his body, every particle of his magic, was telling him that the other things he wanted to do with Malfoy would feel right as well.

Malfoy gasped. Harry saw why a second later—a tiny hole had appeared in the door. It was working! Part of him wanted to stick his tongue in Malfoy's ear and go _nah-nah-nah, who's the stupid Gryffindor now_ , but the larger, smarter part of him wanted to live and so he kept the wand tight and focused. 

The water was up to his chin. He'd been so intent on the door that he'd barely noticed it climbing higher. Now it was lapping at the ends of his hair and inside, he could feel his magic tiring. _All of it_ , he had said, and he'd meant it, but it was so hard to keep the wand steady, the hole enlarging. Malfoy was trembling with exertion but the fizz of his magic kept flowing, and it called to Harry's, twisting together into something bright and powerful.

Something gave and when it gave it went all at once. The hole went from tiny to massive as the center of the door blew out. Harry's heart leaped with joy and relief and triumph all at once but he had no time to think about it. Water rushed through the hole, pouring out in a wave that swept them both out of the room and past the accursed door, sides scraping painfully as they popped free. It was too wet and too tidal to properly stand and so together they slipped and skidded down the corridor.

Harry risked a glance back as they stumbled up the stairs to the common room. The door had smashed completely open and if anything, the water was pouring out faster than ever. Some kind of magic, he supposed—the greater the space to fill, the more water was coming through. They were still ahead of it, though, and he kept Malfoy close to him, pulling him up each time he fell. 

Into the common room, and Harry pelted across as fast as he could make Malfoy move, tensing as behind them the water bellowed. He looked back again in time to see it explode out of the stairwell with the force of a geyser, sending hungry foaming wave after wave after them. Harry had only a second or two as they ran to consider the irreparable damage lake-water would do to those gorgeous black leather sofas and finely carved tables, then they were hitting the door at a shivering run, arm in arm. The stone entrance creaked as it opened and they tumbled out to the roar of angry water. 

"I can't—" Malfoy panted, limped a step and then collapsed. The stone door slammed closed behind them and Harry sank to the floor beside him, pulling Malfoy into his arms. The rumble of water was still loud, ferocious, but they were on the right side of the charmed door now.

"We're safe, shhh," Harry said, feeling stupid and guilty and more wet than he'd ever been. He flopped all the way back, unable to even sit, and Malfoy slid down next to him, practically blue in the face. Harry hauled him on top and started rubbing his back, worried, feeling Malfoy's too thinness and the cold that had seeped so deeply into him that the dungeon stone seemed almost warm in comparison.

Malfoy let out a little helpless sound and turned his face into Harry's neck. If only he had enough strength left for a drying charm, maybe a warming charm, and Harry definitely wasn't thinking this was a relatively fine position to find himself in—

A shadow fell over them. Harry looked up and then looked up a little more at the tall figure now standing there, a pleasantly amused expression spreading across his face. Blaise Zabini, close enough to take in every detail of their drenched embrace, but just far enough back to keep his expensive-looking shoes away from their dirty puddle. Behind him crowded the rest of Slytherin House, a mass of curious eyes and dropped jaws and whispering heads.

"I'd say, get a room but," and here Zabini paused long enough for the rumbling water on the other side of the door to make its own statement, "but I'm guessing that might have become, ah, problematic? Am I correct?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and feedback keep the chapters coming and are always appreciated!


	12. Chapter 12

Draco wanted very badly to keep his nose buried in the crook of Potter's neck. It was surprisingly comfortable, marvelously warm, and humiliatingly safe. That last part didn't bear thinking about, but then again, ever since the war began so very few things had. It was certainly better than lifting his head to look at the figure looming over them who surely had to be Blaise—Draco's ears were too full of water to hear the voice but he could smell the Italian shoe leather from here.

But if Blaise was here, then dinner was over, and the rest of the Slytherins were surely right behind him—

Draco slid off Potter scramblingly fast. Slytherins didn't get rescued by Gryffindors and they certainly didn't cuddle with those Gryffindors afterwards and if either of those absolutely forbidden things were ever to happen, it certainly wouldn't occur outside the secret entrance to the Slytherin dorm. In a dirty puddle of lake water.

What would Father say? At that thought, depression crept back into him, so much more chilling than the cold of the lake. Funny—being near death had made him feel more alive than he had since Father had gone back to Azkaban. Now he felt pummeled again with the realization that he was alive and likely to stay that way for whatever grey span of time stretched out before he could swan off from this miserable existence—

"Stop being melodramatic." A finger—Pansy's finger—poked him.

"I didn't say anything," Draco snapped back, batting the finger away. A trickle of warmth crept back in anyway. Pansy always knew when his mood was turning dark.

"You didn't have to." Pansy grabbed his hand and hauled him up. "I could see it swimming around behind your eyes."

Beside them Potter was pushing himself up too and there might have been a flicker of disappointment when Draco pulled away. Hope flared suddenly—had Potter liked being wrapped around him?—but before it could take root, Draco stomped it flat, ruthlessly. He'd already spent far, far too much of his life mooning over The Boy Who Lived. Pansy would kill him if she had to suffer through another round of let's-pash-on-Potter. The kiss hadn't meant anything. It was just the kind of thing that happened when you thought you were about to die.

Blaise was opening his mouth to say something utterly amusing (in his own eyes) when the click, click, click of heels echoed down the dungeon hall. Draco stiffened. Every Slytherin knew that sound—they could navigate around it in the dark, like bats avoiding a hungry eagle-owl.

"Professor McGonagall," Blaise said smoothly as she arrived with Filch in tow, as if he didn't want to run away like the rest of them. Potter included, probably.

"Mr. Zabini," Professor McGonagall said equally smoothly. "And Misters Potter and Malfoy, along with a not inconsiderable amount of water that smells suspiciously like the Hogwarts lake. The lake which, I have been informed, has suddenly dropped to a lower level than it ever has before."

Water rumbled again behind the entrance to the dorm. Her eyes twitched in that direction. "I hesitate to surmise where it might have gone. I hesitate to ask what may have transpired. And yet, such are the demands of my position that I must do just that."

Potter opened his mouth to start ratting Malfoy out. It was The Ferret's fault, he'd say and by the time he finished telling the story he'd probably even believe it. There was no sin like being a Slytherin in Potter's book and if he liked you, you could do no wrong, and if he hated you, you could do no right. There was no point in even arguing. Snape had been right about that. It only got you labeled as a whiner, no matter how much truth there was in what you had to say.

"Malfoy had nothing to do with it," Potter was saying—

Draco whipped his head around so fast his neck popped.

"He was just there in the dorm, and then the water came, and we got out of there together," Potter rabbited on, words coming more and feebly in the face of McGonagall's unwavering stare.

Still he wasn't throwing Draco to the wolves and it was the oddest sensation he'd ever had. It was like slamming your hand in a drawer and finding it didn't hurt. Like fucking up your hippogriff bow and not getting shredded. Like catching the Snitch in the game against Gryffindor. OK, maybe not quite that good. But more than decent, that was for damn sure.

"Remarkable," McGonagall said at last. "An entire dormitory is now underwater and yet not a single person is at fault. I notice also that in your remarkably compelling account of the matter, Mr. Potter, you left out any mention of how it actually occurred. The contents of the lake did not magically reapportion themselves into the confines of the castle."

Well. Actually that's exactly what happened. Not that Draco was going to start spouting off what had happened, what little he knew of it. The whole incident was clearly aimed at him, given his history with the cabinets. Oh—at that thought Draco's heart gave a little flop then sank to the region of his toes. Potter wasn't trying to protect _him_. He was covering for the twins. Back in the dorm he'd said this was all their fault.

Draco stared at his feet. He could about see his wretched heart down there, beating feebly, stuttering to a halt—

"I said, cut it out," Pansy whispered with an ever more pointy poke. "You know we love you."

Draco wasn't sure there was any such thing as a 'we' when it came to people who loved him. There was just Pansy, who was the best friend anyone could ever wish for. Well, and there was Mother too, of course. And maybe Father, if Draco hadn't bollocked up anything too badly recently.

By the time Draco managed to focus again—and he could be excused from paying close attention, he thought, on account of having just nearly drowned—Potter was saying something else about this whole incident being Gryffindor's fault, really, and therefore Gryffindor should invite the Slytherins to live with them while it was being fixed.

Draco's head buzzed. There was a pleading tone to Potter's voice, like he'd found a puppy and was begging to take it home— _I'll feed it and walk it and take care of it, I promise, just let me keep it, Mum_. Draco was fairly sure that one could not adopt an entire House, and even if one could, it wouldn't be Slytherin. Hufflepuff, maybe. That was the kind of House you could take home and keep in a box under your bed.

McGonagall was evidently thinking the same kind of thing. She glared at Potter: if looks could _Stupefy_ , Potter would be keeling over, frozen stiff with that comically sincere expression still on his face.

"Do I hear you correctly, Mr. Potter? You mean to suggest that your own House would be willing to provide a comfortable home for the displaced Slytherins? For as much time as it takes to repair this frankly unholy mess?"

Filch shuffled next to her. "It's not a bad idea, ma'am. I got nowhere else to put them, excepting you want to bed 'em down in the Great Hall but where we'd all be eating then I couldn't say. Can't be moving beds in and out of there every night, not to mention keeping it warm with winter coming on would be the very devil. There's nowhere else, not and keep them all together."

Draco could just imagine how very much Filch didn't want Slytherins spread randomly throughout the castle, suddenly able to claim that they had every right to be in any particular corridor after hours. Worse than a Siberian doxy infestation to Filch's mind, he bet.

McGonagall's frown seemed to say she agreed. Slughorn certainly wouldn't bother to look in on a dozen different rooms—he hadn't even yet realized his House had sunk, so to speak. Probably was in his office, tippling on something strong.

Finally McGonagall's lips thinned to a line so sharp you could cut parchment with it. There was a certain resignation there too, though, the expression of a woman who had spent her entire adult life dealing with one idiotic prank after another. She nodded, coming to a decision. "Very well. It may be a tight squeeze but it seems we have little other recourse."

She turned and gave a sharp wave. "Come along now, everyone. Follow me."

The mass of students followed her back along the dungeon hallway, filling the air with the buzz of questions—suddenly everyone had finished every assignment, it was just that their parchments were ruined but they wouldn't have to redo them, right—and new school robes, what were they supposed to wear tomorrow—

Draco hung back, uncertain. Potter might be enough of a sentimental bleeding-hearter to want to make things up to the people whose every belonging was now underwater but he couldn't possibly mean Draco as well. The Gryffindors would probably rather hang him by the neck until he was dead than let him in their rooms and he wasn't sure he blamed them. Maybe he could find some deserted room, some unused cupboard somewhere and set up a bed in there?

He bit his lip. Honestly, at this point he would just as soon be as far away from the Slytherins as the Gryffindors. There was nothing a true Slytherin hated so much as a loser, and Draco was the new poster-child for loss.

A hand tucked itself into his. Draco looked over, a smile on his lips, expecting to see Pansy. But Pansy was on his other side—

"Come on, Malfoy," Potter said. His hand, tight on Draco's, gave a little squeeze. "Haven't you ever wanted to see our common room?"

Draco would have spluttered, if he weren't too well-bred for such an unmannered response. "I, er, I can't—

"Guess you'll have to," Potter said cheerfully, dragging him along at the back of the pack.

Pansy traipsed along beside them, shooting Draco looks that clearly said _what the bloody hell is up with Savior Boy_? Draco shrugged back at her. Honestly, he had nearly as little idea as she did.

They went up and up the stairs, which fortunately weren’t shifting around with their usual maddening randomness. Probably even the castle snapped to attention at the click-click of McGonagall's heels. He'd never even been this high up in this part of the castle and he was almost puffing when they stopped in front of the portrait of a fat lady in pink.

Potter started squirming his way to the front of the crowd, pulling Draco with him. It wasn't hard to move up—the Slytherins as a whole were desperately unwilling to be first in line, it seemed. Pinches and jabs met him as they wiggled through, along with angry whispers. They were already blaming Draco for this, no matter what Potter said. Certainly no matter what the truth of the matter was. Truth was such a tiny thing compared to power—that's what life in Slytherin House taught you, if nothing else.

The portrait unlatched at a starched look from the Headmistress—no password required for her apparently—and it opened to reveal Granger and Weasley standing just inside the door.

Granger looked principled and determined. Ready to argue with the Headmistress no doubt, which was just the pointless waste of curried favor that Granger would go in for. Weasley, on the other hand, was staring at the Slytherins like a pack of Acromantulas that had stopped by for tea.

"Professor McGonagall," Granger was already protesting, "I got your message but surely you can't expect us to house the, the —well there's not room in any case—"

McGonagall cleared her throat. "The Slytherin dormitory is completely uninhabitable. Furthermore it will remain so for an uncertain amount of time." She shot a look in their direction. "Mr. Potter here has been remarkably unforthcoming as to the cause of its current waterlogged state, but he had absolutely no doubt that the matter should be laid to rest at Gryffindor feet."

Weasley's mouth was dropping open a little further with every word.

"Having destroyed their home," Professor McGonagall continued, "it is only right that you should open your own to them."

"But—" Granger's hands fluttered like memos at the Ministry.

"But nothing, Miss Granger," McGonagall said and now the hint of anger in her voice was unmistakable. "The Slytherins will be taking up residence alongside you in the Gryffindor dorm. Transfigure new beds or let them into your own, air out every unused space, do whatever you need to in order to make them welcome—and I do expect them to feel welcome, make no mistake about that. I may not know the specifics—now or ever—but I do believe Mr. Potter when he says it is my own House's fault."

Draco sucked in a sudden, surprised breath. McGonagall was angry but not at Slytherin? She was furious with her own Gryffindors for causing the problem? Even more startling was the fact that Potter was nodding along to all of this.

Draco would never, never understand them. He'd spent endless hours dissecting every last move that Potter in particular and Gryffindors in general made and every time he thought he grasped them at last—they respected only bravery, they cared only for their own side, they mouthed platitudes and then connived like the rest of the world—they surprised him. Well, Potter and McGonagall had surprised him, at least.

Granger stepped back, defeat written on her face. "Of course, Headmistress, I don't know how we'll manage, but we'll find a way."

The Weasel still hadn't managed to move beyond 'gobsmacked' but Potter was bouncing on his heels with enthusiasm.

"Come on, then, Malfoy," he said with a tug.

Draco dug in his heels. He couldn't. He just couldn't. The Gryffindor common room? It felt beyond wrong. Sacrilegious maybe. A violation of the natural order. Lions didn't invite snakes into their home and the fact that he desperately wanted to stay at Potter's side made it so much worse. Any minute now and everyone would know that and then they'd turn and point and laugh—

Potter leaned in close, a smile playing around his lips. "Come on, then. Don't make me carry you across the threshold, Malfoy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and feedback keep the chapters coming and are deeply appreciated!


	13. Chapter 13

Draco very definitely didn't squeak. He hopped across the threshold smartly enough though and found himself in the one place he had never, ever expected to go. Ignoring the quiver in his stomach, he put his chin up and assayed a superior sniff. "Red and gold everywhere, of course. All you'd need is some greenery and it would look like Christmas was stabbed to death in here."

"That's enough, Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall said crisply as she entered behind them. "I doubt your House is entirely blameless in this matter, whatever it is that occurred." She raised her hand and beckoned the rest of the Slytherins in.

They came warily, climbing in through the portrait with as little enthusiasm as sausages approaching the pan.  


"Oi, mate," the Weasel said as Potter scooted past him, pulling Draco toward the stairs on the far side of the room. "Aren't you going to help get this lot settled?"

"Sounds like a job for a prefect," Potter called back. There might have been an edge in his voice. A tiny dig, from someone who was now seeing the bright side of not getting picked for the position of power.

Draco couldn't relate. There was no upside to lacking power in Slytherin House. You were either on top or you were face down in the dirt. He should know. He'd been sucking soil for long enough now. 

Round and round the stairs until finally they spilled out into a round turret room, comfortably furnished with red-and-gold draped beds set around a little stove. Mullioned windows looked out over the grounds, opening to air instead of muddied water. How strange, to be up in the air instead of under the ground—Draco wondered if it scared them, like the lake had scared him the first time he set foot in a Slytherin dorm. Did they ever fear they might open a window when the night was as black as the one when Dumbledore fell and step out themselves, finding the air every bit as deadly as the water of the lake?

"Are you all right?" Potter was looking at him strangely.

"I'm not fond of towers," Draco said. He knew it came out stiff and formal but he couldn't bring up that night, of all things. Potter would just remember how much he hated Draco and probably push him out the window himself, at that.

Oh Merlin, was that what this was all about? Had Potter arranged everything to lure him up here to the Gryffindor tower then he and the Weasel and the rest of the Gryffindors were going to heave him off in payment for his crimes? It would be like one of those mystery books by that Muggle woman Mother pretended she didn't read—Agatha Crispy, or whoever it was.

Potter was looking really worried now. "Malfoy, you've gone really pale. Are you all right?" He patted the bed beside him. "Come sit down."  


Draco sidled over and sat on the edge of the bed. It was farther from the window at least. 

Potter looked him up and down. Then he grabbed Draco and pulled him up to the top of the bed, settling them hip to hip, leaning back against the pillow. With a wave of his hand, the bed-curtains whooshed closed. 

"I'm wet." Draco picked at his trouser. "Well, damp, at least. You too. We'll get your bed all mucky."

"Right." Potter looked pleased at that thought, for some reason. Then he grabbed his sweater and pulled it off, pushing it past the bed-curtain to flop onto the floor. His hands went to his tie next—that slithered off into a heap next to them—then his fingers went to his shirt buttons. "Come on. You too. We need to get out of these wet things." He flushed, then went ahead and added a _Silencio_.

Draco tried to frown but found himself licking his lips instead. His mind kept going back to the way it had felt when they'd been wrapped around each other. "What are you trying to do, Potter?"

"I'm trying to get you naked. In my bed. After kissing you. What do you think I want?" Potter paused in his unbuttoning, leaving an enticing sliver of chest on view. "Wait, am I being rude? Do you want to be seduced? Here—" He waved his hand again. A box of chocolates shot through the slit in the bed-curtains, sideways on, like a small beribboned missile.

Potter snagged the box, opened it, and squinted at the contents. "Do you like coconut? That's about all I've got left. Unless you like the one with the cherry that sits in that messy little syrup?"

Draco bit his lip. Potter was offering up his cherry. Gryffindors—did they have no sense of metaphor? Or irony? Or even the basest sense of humour?

Of course not, Draco realized after a moment's thought. Gryffindors thought the height of comedy was to fill your dorm with water and let you drown. He shivered. "I thought you wanted me dead. Now you want me naked? Forgive me for being a little confused here."  


Potter's face softened. He took his glasses off, tucked them out of the way, and rubbed his nose.

Draco had seen that look when he'd watched Potter talking with his friends across the Great Hall. Genuine, concerned eyes meant for Weasley or Granger or even little Creevey. If by chance his eyes came up and he saw Draco watching, though, his expression would turn at once hard and angry. Draco didn't deserve that kind look and he definitely didn't understand why he was finally getting it. "Why are you doing this?" he asked at last, wishing he could let it be. Just enjoy it, whatever this momentary madness was.

Potter licked his lips and looked down, pinching the chocolate between his fingers. "I feel bad about today. Okay? You could've died."  


Is that all it was? A stab of disappointment went through Draco. He hunched in on himself. "You nearly got Snape killed a few times. Did you offer him a naked apology too?"

Potter squinched his nose and laughed. "No. And, eew. Sincerely, and from both sides, I'm sure. If victory had required Snape to receive any kind of personal touch from me whatsoever, we'd all be licking Volde-arse right now."

"I never did understand why Snape hated you so much. Don’t get me wrong, it was desperately amusing especially when it came to Potions, but I didn't get it." It was silly but Draco was glad to hear it--at least this wasn't the standard Potter apology package. It made him feel a little daring and he flicked his fingers peremptorily. "Also, keep undressing. I didn't tell you to stop."

Potter gave a shy smile and finished unbuttoning. He shrugged his shirt off his shoulders and held the chocolate up. "Here. You missed dinner. It's all I've got to offer."

On an impulse—probably a very bad, very stupid impulse that prioritized naked skin over naked truth—Draco leaned forward and took the chocolate between his teeth. He let his tongue swipe out and lick along Potter's fingers.

Potter moaned, thick and a little breathy. It was a sound Draco had heard in his fantasies a thousand times. He'd gotten it surprisingly close to the real thing, he realized with a little bit of pride. Pansy always said his imagination was excellent. He edged his teeth into the chocolate, delicate as a dragonlet taking a treat, and tugged it from between Potter's fingers. Potter smiled with delight then rubbed his lips together, as if he could taste it too. 

"Please," Potter said, "I know we should talk some more but I don't know exactly what to say—I'm just starting to figure some major things out about myself, you know, and maybe I should have figured them out already, but to be fair I was very busy with other things—"

Draco rubbed the chocolate across his tongue and moaned a little It was a very good chocolate, far better than anything Potter would buy for himself. A present from Granger no doubt and there was a certain delicious pleasure in diverting such a sweet to his own mouth. Fed to him by Potter, no less.

Draco licked each of Potter's fingers clean, then brought those fingers to his own shirt-buttons, watched as Potter fumbled them open one by one. As soon as it was open, Potter tugged it off, first one arm then the other. Then the two of them were naked chest to naked chest and of all the things Draco had never seen coming this morning, this had to be at the top of the list, and that was even taking the Vanishing Cabinet and the Insta-Lake into account.

Potter was lean, a little more muscled than Draco had last seen in the glimpses he'd stolen in the locker room. He'd spent a year living rough, of course, so Draco wasn't really surprised. A patch of dark fur led enticingly down past the waistband of his trousers and Draco found himself suddenly, intensely hard. The flavor he wanted in his mouth right now wasn't cocoa, that was for certain.

At the same time, he wanted to hide. To slip beneath the blanket and keep his skinny, pale body out of sight. The only living ghost, Pansy had taken to calling him and what had seemed amusing from a best friend in the common room now felt too painfully, unattractively true.  


But Potter didn't seem to mind. Potter was running a hand down Draco's chest as if it were a wonder. His fingers traced a path from collar-bone to hip, lingered nervously around the waistband, then retreated upward, slipping over his nipple and sending a jolt right to Draco's groin. His breath hitched and his trousers tented and Potter looked absolutely riveted, a flush spreading across his chest.

A sudden thought hit Draco, making his heart flop over. He'd glamoured over his scars this morning, hadn't he? He didn't want to talk about them right now, didn't want to know if Potter would apologize or put all the blame on Draco or, worst of all, roll away with a shuttered face. He chanced running a hand down his own chest and felt nothing there—the silvered scars were safely hidden away.

"I want—" Potter breathed, apparently quite liking the sight of Draco touching himself, "please, can I?"

Draco nodded yes, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to but figuring if it involved Potter and further nakedness, it was absolutely fine with him. His head bob had barely ended before Potter's fingers were on his belt, unbuckling it then sliding his trousers off.

"I'll lend you some dry ones afterwards," Potter assured him as if Draco could even begin to care right now what he'd be putting on his body later. Now was all about taking it off. "We're not too far from the same size, you can transfigure it the rest of the way—"

Draco shoved his tongue in Potter's mouth. Best way to shut a man up, in his opinion. Besides, talking had never been their strong suit. Potter's tongue kept moving, as if it hadn't realized talking time was over. Draco wrapped his own tongue around it and commenced sucking. That earned him a happy shudder, then all of a sudden Potter was on top of him, down to his boxers and humping Draco with shameless enthusiasm.

Outside he could hear the room fill with seventh-year Slytherins and Gryffindors, arguing about space while Weasley tried to take control. Draco trusted in Potter's Silencio and didn't try to stifle the moans that started spilling from his lips as Potter got their cocks lined up. The friction was intense, fantastic, so perfectly different from his own boring right hand.

Not enough though. Draco tugged Potter's pants off and got his own down in the process, sadly having to push Potter off to accomplish this. Really, weren't Gryffindors supposed to be the ones to spearhead the charge? Potter wasn't being any help at all—he was too busy staring at Draco's cock.

"You're, er—"

Big? Yes, Draco knew that, thank you very much. He smiled with satisfaction. "A Malfoy centuries back caught a genie. Guess what he asked for, for himself and all his male descendants?"

Potter was running a reverent hand over it, stroking it up and down, watching it grow thicker and purpler by degrees. "Good choice," he said, thumbing the vein over and over until Draco had to pull back with a cry. Pre-come was already beading at the tip and this could be over far too fast if he didn't slow them both down.

Potter wasn't half bad himself, Draco realized as he finally got the git completely naked. That lovely brown fur ran down and curled around the base of a cock that was temptingly fat. Draco could imagine it stretching his arsehole, making him kick and wriggle and beg for it to stop, all the way up until he started to beg for it to fuck him harder.

Potter scooted down the bed without another word, almost trembling with excitement. "I want to, I'm going to—"

Draco opened his mouth to say something—some form of bloody hell, yes—but Potter's mouth was already closing around the bell-end of his cock. His hips jerked up, involuntary, wanting more pressure, more slide. Potter lurched and gagged a little and drooled some too but all the time he was making the most needy noises and his hips were moving convulsively as he sucked.

Draco's cock popped out. Potter stuffed it back in but he couldn't seem to figure out where to put his hands, not and hold himself up at the same time. A graze of tooth—Draco winced—

Hmmm. Potter wasn't very experienced at this, was he? Not that it didn’t feel wicked brilliant on the whole—Potter's mouth was wet and hot and wholly enthusiastic. He just didn't seem to have the angles down yet, didn't know how to coordinate the matter.

"Let me," Draco said as he wrapped his hands in Potter's hair. An untamable mess it might be but it made a perfect handle for a face fuck.  


Wait. There was a way to make this even better. Draco grabbed a pillow and shoved it between Potter's legs. "Fuck this, Potter. I want to watch you get yourself off while I come down your throat and I want you to remember this every time you put your head down to go to sleep."

Potter flushed a hard red from his face down to his chest. His cock jerked where it lay on top of the pillow and he had the look of someone whose pride was fighting with his wants. Then he bit his lip and dropped his eyes, not quite able to meet Draco's gaze, and let his hips start fucking his cock across the white cotton.

Draco got his cock into just the right position too and gently lowered Potter's mouth back onto it. This didn't need to be rough but it was certainly going to be thorough. Sometimes the Slytherin just had to take charge, he supposed.

He pushed Potter's head a little deeper onto his cock, luxuriating in its feel. He pulled Potter's head back up, just a little bobbing motion, and rubbed himself with a little twisting motion across the tongue. His head fell back and he groaned then he forced himself to open his eyes and watch. He wanted every moment of this burned on his memory.

Potter's eyes were half-lidded now, his lips reddened, and his magic buzzing hot with lust. Little cries were escaping from his mouth each time Draco thrust up and he was fucking the pillow faster and faster. He was twisting his head in Draco's hands and Draco was afraid it was too much even though he'd been so careful, then he realized Potter was trying to jam Draco's cock back down his throat again. 

Draco's hips stuttered on that thought—Potter wanted cock stuffed down his throat, Potter was desperate to gag himself while he frantically rubbed one out. Potter was stilling and stiffening and his back arched and his grunts were turning ever deeper. His eyes were locked on Draco's in a way that might have been sultry if they weren't so full of need.

He saw it, the moment that Potter started to come. He stiffened, went rigid, and groaned continuously, fucking hard all the way through it. Draco could almost feel that cock inside him, could imagine being pounded like that at the end. He spread his legs and thrust up hard and came in Potter's mouth, which was still wrapped around his cock, sucking helplessly.

Potter didn't swallow well—he looked confused, overwhelmed with the shock of an orgasm that was somewhere between release and revelation. Draco twisted back and forth anyway, needing that last little bit of wet, rubbing tongue, and fuck the way his own come made Potter's mouth all slippery was about the most fantastic thing he'd ever felt.

He let Potter's head go at last and relaxed back into the bed. Potter looked like he might protest as Draco's cock popped free, but his hips were finally slowing too, coming to a halt after one last needful rub across the come-spattered fabric.

"Fuck, Draco," Potter said at last, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "That was fucking—"

A crack of breaking wards and the bed-curtains flew open. Blaise stood there, taking in Draco's cock and Potter's mouth, looking like the cat that ate the cream.

"You don't waste any time, do you Draco?" His mouth split into a wide grin and he called over his shoulder to the rest of the Slytherins behind him. "Look who's already discovered the dorm cocksucker."

Potter's eyes were wide and a little wild. He looked like he didn't know if he wanted to grab some clothes or grab the bed-curtains or maybe just wandlessly hex Blaise into the next world.

"Oh no fucking way, mate," the Weasel said stepping up right next to Blaise. "Harry is _our_ cocksucker. You're going to have to get your own."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback and comments are deeply appreciated and keep the chapters coming!


	14. Chapter 14

Harry had never realized how crucial it was to know a wandless charm to put your clothes on in bed. He'd used it primarily for cold mornings but when you were come-spattered, bare-arsed, and staring up at a mixed pack of Slytherins and Gryffindors, it was the best trick in the entire world.

His clothes flew on so fast it chafed—he'd have the trouser equivalent of rug-burn in the morning—and his buttons did themselves up with blinding speed. Malfoy had dived under the covers and Harry threw the charm his way too, sending an extra pair of trousers and a clean shirt slithering over to him.

The tingling scrub of a cleansing charm told him Malfoy was returning the favor. Trust a Slytherin to have a wandless way to remove the evidence, not that Harry was complaining. He was starting to realize all kinds of wonderful things came from keeping a Slytherin in your bed.

Malfoy had a funny look on his face when he sat up. His tie was still a little damp, dragging as it wrapped itself around his neck. "What do you mean he's your—"

"Cocksucker," Zabini repeated helpfully. "He's magically obligated to provide oral pleasure to all the eighth-year blokes in his dorm."

Harry took a deep breath and added 'embarrassment' to the list of things he would not allow himself to die from today.

Malfoy looked horrified. "You were magically compelled to do that?"

"No, it wasn't like that." Harry sputtered to a halt. He couldn't explain to Malfoy how very much Harry had wanted to suck his cock, and how long he'd spent denying he wanted to suck it, and how nothing had made him do it except for an overpowering desire to have said cock stuffed as far down his throat as he could manage. At least, not in front of everyone.

" _We're_ eighth-year blokes," Nott said thoughtfully, "and we're in your dorm."

The door banged open and the twins shouldered through, knocking Slytherins aside. "You wretched little snake," said the one who had to be Fred. He was at the bed in a moment and looming over Malfoy with loathing in his eyes. "Knew you'd find out about the contract and you didn't waste one minute taking advantage of him, did you?"

They thought Malfoy had, wait, what? Comprehension hit—talk about adding insult to injury--and on its heels came a white-hot rage. Harry flung himself from the bed and his fist was already coming up as he shot to his feet. He barely had enough room to punch but he brought it up tight between them and connected with Fred's jaw with the most satisfying thunk he'd heard since Tom Riddle's head had hit the Great Hall's floor.

Harry's fist flared with pain. He yelped but it was lost beneath the din—Fred yelling out, Gryffindor confusion, Slytherin glee. He called his wand and stalked toward Fred, who'd landed on the floor by Neville's bed. A corridor had opened in the crush and Harry raised his wand, his head filled with the image of Malfoy drowning in his own dorm room, blue and cold and alone. If Harry hadn't gotten in—

Ron stepped in the way, a hand coming up to wrap around Harry's. "Oi, mate! What's the matter?" he said, looking more baffled than worried. "Not that I don't understand wanting to murder Fred on occasion but Mum's going to want to know exactly what he did this time."

George had made it to Fred's side and was helping him up. "Harry, don't worry. The contract doesn't extend to the Slytherins. You had to agree to the terms of the contract and be there for the wand spin."

Fred finished getting to his feet, rubbing his jaw all the while. "You should have asked us first, Harry, we would have told you. I understand wanting to smack someone after getting blinkered by that albino worm but don't blame us—"

"I wanted—blinkered—you flooded—" There were a half dozen complete sentences inside Harry's brain, each of them articulate and cutting, explaining exactly how welcome Malfoy was in his bed, and how he hadn't forced Harry into anything, and furthermore how the twins's stupid prank had nearly killed the pair of them. They all collided on his tongue, tripped over each other, and fell incoherently out of a mouth gone tight with rage.

"You nearly killed him. And me," Harry got out finally. "The bloody door charms shut when it floods, did you know that? We barely got out with our lives. We were minutes away from drowning!"

Fred went pale. "Harry, we had no idea. We would never have put you at risk."

"Us! You put _us_ at risk!" Even as he said that, voices were pouring in from every throat. Nott and Neville and Goyle and Seamus and well, it seemed like everyone was yelling at once.

"You deliberately flooded our dorm?"

"It's true you told McGonagall it was Gryffindor's fault?"

"Gryffindor did this to us on purpose?"

" _Harry_ invited these snakes in?"

"What's done is done," said Zabini, his unflustered voice cutting through the fuss with the assurance of the impeccably well-bred. "We're flooded out. We're living here. There's no sense fighting about the facts now." He crossed his arms and smiled at the twins. "So. Back to the matter at hand. Under the circumstances, then, we need to choose our own cocksucker. Put up an equal stake, so to speak."

Harry's brain returned to splutter mode but there was nothing to be done. The mood had changed again and suddenly everyone was excitedly discussing this new and fascinating development in cocksucking options. Anyway, in front of everyone probably wasn't the place to do this. He'd get the twins alone sometime soon and while there wouldn't be murder there would be some very strong words. He wasn't ruling out going back to fists either and hexes definitely weren't off the menu.

Malfoy was up out of the bed anyway, not meeting Harry's eyes. The Slytherins seemed to be planning their own contract ritual, to be conducted that night. Harry moved in his direction, heart in his throat. What if it was Malfoy? He had to explain how it worked, didn't he?

Before he could get there, footsteps rang on the stairs. The word 'cocksucker' had barely been hushed before Hermione was poking her head in the room.

Harry braced himself—the Slytherins better not be rude to her. Before he could open his mouth to say anything, Zabini stepped forward.

"Head Girl. Ms. Granger," Zabini said with a smile that actually looked more genuine than political. "Thank you for taking us in." He threw a look at the Slytherins that was clearly meant to quell any _they-flooded-us-out_ backtalk. "Regardless of what may have occurred to create the need for it."

Hermione nodded to him, Head Girl to Prefect, and Harry relaxed. Maybe between the pair of them they could keep the Gryffindor/Slytherin murder rate reasonably low. Anyway, it wasn't his problem. What he really needed was to get over to Malfoy—

"Harry? I've got a lovely nook set up for you." Hermione stopped and looked around the room, her face falling. "Ron, really? Haven't you got anywhere at all in getting this room organized? I've got half the younger ones settled already."

The Slytherins seemed delighted with this dressing down of the Weasel, but Harry didn't get to stay to see how Ron sorted them all out. Hermione already had her hand on his arm and was tugging him down the stairs. He glanced back at Malfoy, who was looking a little wan, but he couldn't exactly tell Hermione that he needed to stay to discuss the details of a magic cocksucking contract, now could he?

"I thought you deserved something as nice as we could manage. You'll have to share with someone of course and it's so small there's really no space for anything but the bed, but it's better than being squashed eight or more to a room."

Her heels clacked eagerly on the stone, leading him further down the tower than he'd ever been before: past the level of the common room, through a wall that turned out to be a door, finally stopping on a tiny landing. "It used to be a private study nook and more recently it's been used to store cleaning supplies but I got it cleared out for you and had a bed put in."

"Hermione," Harry said, looking at the small door set under the turn of the steps. He wasn't sure if he wanted to frown or grin. "It's a closet. Under the stairs."

Hermione's hand shot to her mouth. She flushed red. "Oh, Harry! I'm so sorry. I didn't think of that. Of course I'll put you somewhere else."

Harry opened the door anyway. It was small inside and mostly bed like Hermione had said, but a window filled the far wall, letting the rising moon shine in on white sheets. It smelled like clean citrus and the bed was wide and inviting, with blankets piled at the foot. He went with the smile. "It _is_ lovely. Thank you, Hermione."

"There's no room for dressers or a desk, I'm afraid. You'll have to keep your things in a trunk under the bed."

Harry nodded absently. "It's got a window-seat." Harry remembered that first night he'd spent at Hogwarts. Sitting in the window, looking out across the grounds, feeling happy for the first time in years. He turned and impulsively gave Hermione a little squeeze. "Thank you. I am sorry about all the work I've made for you, asking McGonagall to house the Slytherins here."

Hermione waved that off. "It was the right thing to do. Especially if it was our fault." She turned to Harry, looking more worried. "It wasn't something you did, was it? I know the war was terrible but you wouldn't have deliberately flooded their dorm, would you?"

Harry shook his head, feeling suddenly weary. He wanted to crawl into bed and eat crackers and fall asleep. "It was the twins."

Hermione sniffed. "Of course. I should have guessed." She held up a hand. "No more details. What I don't know, I don't have to tell Professor McGonagall."

She turned to go. "I'll have your trunk sent up. Ron will be along later. He's who you'll want to share with, I figured."

Harry watched her go then crawled into the bed, all the way to the far side near the window. He leaned back against the pillow. Did he want to share with Ron? It wouldn't be bad, of course. Better than being with a random someone else. But not as good as being with—his mind trembled over the name but he might as well admit it inside his own head—it wasn't as good as being with Malfoy.

A crack under the bed announced the arrival of a house elf, presumably with his trunk.

"Hello?" Harry called out. 

A little elf face poked up over the end of the bed. "Mr. Harry Potter! Sir! Widley is bringing your belongings and putting them where she is told to."

"Thank you, Widley." Harry hesitated but really, what Hermione didn't know wouldn't hurt her. Anyway, the house elves really did love bringing people food. "I missed dinner. Is there any way I could get a little something sent up?"

Widley's face lit up. "Of course! Widley would love to be presenting Mr. Harry Potter with all manner of dinners, there being roasted beef and chicken pie and potatoes baked and potatoes fried and hotpot of Lancashire and double mince and medlied vegetations and—"

After Harry had talked Widley down from delivering a seven-course feast and she'd disappeared off to the kitchen, he leaned back against the pillow again. Exhaustion was creeping over him. He'd narrowly escaped death-by-drowning today, he'd expended vast amounts of magic escaping, and then he'd used whatever second wind he had left rolling around in bed with Malfoy. _Then_ he'd tried to fight Fred. Harry shook his hand. His knuckles were still hurting.

Widley arrived with a large plate of rare sliced beef, a mounded heap of roast potatoes, and a pair of treacle tarts. Harry took half and put the rest under a stasis charm on the window seat. Malfoy hadn't eaten yet either.

Harry should go upstairs and talk to him. Warn him how the cocksucker was picked.

He ate a potato instead of getting out of bed. He burned with shame just thinking about admitting that he'd ended up as the dorm cocksucker because the contract chose the person who most wanted to do it. Saving someone's life was one thing. Telling them you were desperate to suck cock was entirely different.

Anyway, it wouldn't be Malfoy. No way did an elegant little aristocrat like Malfoy crave going down on his knees for blokes. Accepting a willing mouth was different. It didn't necessarily mean Malfoy wanted to return the favor. He might have been enjoying Harry's mouth while he pictured massive tits and girly bits for all Harry knew.

_This is your chance to find out_ , a voice whispered inside him. A tendril of excitement twisted at the thought, much as he wanted to squash it. If Malfoy got picked, then there was no denying he liked blokes as much as Harry did. It was as good as Veritaserum as far as this particular question went and oh, Harry desperately wanted to know the answer.

He finished his treacle tart and banished his plates back to the kitchen. He should push himself out of bed and go upstairs right now. Tell Malfoy how the contract worked.

He would do it in a minute. Harry pulled the blanket over his legs. He just needed a moment to collect his thoughts. Decide exactly what words to use. How to make it sound less than hideously embarrassing. He wriggled down in the bed and tried to come up with exactly what to say.

A moment later, the moon was shining in on a large white bed, a bank of fluffy pillows, and a blanket-draped Harry Potter. Worn out, over-exerted, and completely, utterly asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and feedback are much loved and keep the chapters coming!


	15. Chapter 15

Draco made his way to the Potions lab alone. He didn't want to be walking down the stone stairs to the unflooded part of the dungeon. What he _wanted_ to do was crawl into a hole, pull his knees up to his chest, wrap his arms around them, and fall over sideways. If he was lucky, he'd freeze solid sometime around December. Maybe they'd even let Father out for the funeral. 

What he actually did was push open the door to the Potions lab and slide smoothly into place in the circle. Nobody looked his way. He didn't rate that anymore of course, not that he'd ever show it bothered him.

He kept his face schooled into that perfect blend of haughty and bored that kept you safe in the Slytherin common room. Sooner or later they all learned to give nothing away--no enthusiasm that could be mocked, no desire that could be thwarted, no need that could be leveraged. Stay smooth and hard and be the rock that the tide washes over and for godsakes, don't let anyone see that you're absolutely, suddenly heartsick.

At the thought, Draco went clammy with humiliation all over again. Potter had been _compelled_ to kiss and lick and suck him. His whole body ached, just like after _Cruciatus_. It had been magic, not desire. How could he have been such a colossal imbecile as to think Potter actually wanted him? He couldn't even bear to shake Draco's hand when they were eleven. Why would Potter ever look at him kindly, let alone want to stuff Draco's cock down his throat now?

Blaise nodded to Theo as he came through the door and sat down. The other two—Greg and Marcus—were already in place. One by one they'd snuck down to the Potions lab, returning to familiar ground for the ritual. They'd pushed the desks back and put the chairs in a circle, but somehow Draco still expected to see Snape sweep through the door, outraged to discover Slytherins out after-hours.

"Dearly beloved," Blaise said when everyone was settled, using that slightly ironic tone that he brought to everything these days. "We are gathered today to resurrect a long-standing tradition that has sadly fallen into disuse. It is a dark day that we, of all Houses, should have to be reminded of tradition by Gryffin—"

"Cocksucker," Marcus said, leaning forward. "We're here to pick a cocksucker so stop jawing and let's get to it."

Blaise rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers. A scroll appeared in the air beside him, dropped into his hand, and unrolled with a snap. "Needless to say, our usual trove of Slytherin documents is currently unavailable. Fortunately, our Founder made certain that all records are also accessible magically. I searched the archives and voila-here it is. The official Slytherin Cocksucking Contract." He let his lip curl up as his eyes slid to Marcus. "Is that straight-forward enough for you?"

Marcus grunted. Draco had never quite decided whether Marcus was as brutish as he liked people to think. On the whole, though, Draco thought the answer was yes.

Blaise flicked his wand and the scroll duplicated itself, making a copy for each of them. Draco opened his and scanned it. Standard negotiation contract, really. Favors given, favors received, penalties for non-fulfillment of terms by any party here undersigned. Record keeping of all things promised and all things owed, spelled to be correct and up-to-date at all times. The only difference was the words in fancy script across the top: Contract for the Cocksucker.

A shiver ran down his spine, hidden by his robe. Did he want to? Could he bear to?

Draco shook that off. He'd managed before and he'd manage again. Instead of mooning over Potter, he should be salivating at the thought of all the favors he could get in return for something as simple and mechanical as a suck. Slytherin House's fortune might have ebbed, but there was still plenty of strings that his dormmates could pull.

Blaise's mother alone was on a first-name basis with most of the Wizengamot. Theo's father had been a judge and, known Deatheater though he might be, he still knew everyone at court. Marcus's mother was the head of the Witching Circle and the influence of that wasn't to be underestimated. If he was going to get Father out of Azkaban, those were the things he needed to be focused on, not Harry Bloody Potter.

Blaise gave a final look around the circle then threw his wand into the middle of the circle. It hung in midair, still at first, then with a pop it blurred into motion. Faster than the eye could see, it spun, sending a little flash of light over each of them in turn. Finally it slowed, until a dot of silver light shone on Greg's chest alone.

"Greg, that means you get to begin the negotiation." Blaise tapped his wand and a chart appeared in the air. "What's your opening bid?"

Greg's eyes flicked to Theo. Draco could almost see him think. Greg had always pashed on that cousin of Theo's, the one who went to Beauxbatons, but she wouldn't give him a drying charm in a downpour. Having some favors on the string could get his foot in the door. An invitation to a family dinner. A good word put in.

Greg chewed his cheek and decided. "I'll give three sucks a week to each of you. In return I want three favors."

"What size favors?" Blaise promptly asked, wand poised to put Greg's offer on the chart.

The general population, Draco was given to understand, thought that favors came in two sizes: large and small. Utterly ridiculous. Favors actually came in every size, from the mildly difficult to the monumental, and they were measured on a scale from zero to one hundred. A favor with a size of one might get you a saved seat at dinner. A favor with a size of one hundred would get you a seat in Wizengamot, if the person you contracted with could deliver it. Well, and if it was legal. Illegal favors were governed by an entirely different system.

"Two very small favors, no more than a ten on the scale. One medium favor, up to, say, a twenty."

Draco checked the fine print on the contract, looking to see what charm they were using to measure favor size. There it was—the Wiggens Weigher. He wrinkled his nose—that charm tended to be a little biased in favor of the recipient of the service. He would have preferred the Scilodex Scale.

Blaise put Greg's offer on the chart, where it was regarded with a general lack of enthusiasm. Greg was hardly a novice at the service—it was too useful a skill to be ignored in their House—but a square skull and a limp tongue wasn't much of pull.

Draco knew he could beat that offer. Hell, everyone knew he could beat that offer. The things that had been going on last year at the Manor were hardly a secret in Slytherin House—they all knew what Draco'd had to do, given the favors he'd needed just to get by. The question was, how much was he going to have to give in return?

Blaise set the wand to spinning again. Draco pushed it all back—the heartsickness, the fear for Father, the wretched bone-sucking exhaustion that was creeping over him.

The wand stopped at Theo this time. He'd grown out of his rabbity looks sometime over the past year or so: the baby fat had melted off and the acne had gone with it, leaving olive skin and high cheekbones in their wake. His hair had darkened too, shading from mousey brown into light chocolate, and he'd grown it long and started tying it back with a leather cord. Draco tried not to bite his lip. Theo could be a threat. With a known Deatheater for a father, court connections or not, Theo could use a word in the right ears. A Ministry job, an introduction to the right girl—he could finagle all that with the judicious application of some favors.

Theo slid back in his chair and did a good job of looking arrogantly relaxed. "No offense, Greg, but I think I'm worth a little more than you. Two sucks per person per week. One, if you want it enthusiastic. No more than ten minutes per suck—no drawing it out, you wankers. I know what a bunch of bastards you are."

"Tempting," Marcus said with an eyeroll. "Everyone's pleasure-dream, you are. One eye on the clock and if we're lucky you won't gag before we even get half across your tongue."

Draco allowed himself a smirk. _He_ didn't need to fake his enthusiasm and he didn't need to set a time limit either. He could make every last one of them come as fast as he pleased, whether they wanted to drag it out or not. He might not have gotten much studying in last year but he'd sure as fuck learned how to suck cock.

Blaise flicked his wand and Theo's offer blinked into place on the chart. "Favors asked? Number and size?"

Theo made a show of considering, though Draco would bet anything he'd already decided exactly what to ask for. It wasn't like they hadn't all been thinking about this ever since Potter had been revealed as the Gryffindor sucker.

Draco dragged his thoughts away from Potter as fast as he could, but humiliation was already bubbling up again. He touched his chest idly, running a finger along the scar that zigged across his chest, mirroring exactly the one on Potter's forehead. It ached at odd intervals, flaring sometimes into a pain as wickedly intense as the first moment the spell had sliced into him. Other times, like now, it was no more than a dull throb, an itch, a reminder of what lay beneath his clothes.

When Draco looked up, Blaise was studying him. Draco let his hand drop, suddenly self-conscious. Blaise would never say anything, especially at a time like this, but he knew when Draco was hurting. Physically, and otherwise. Draco jerked his eyes away, looking up at the chart instead. He'd missed what Theo had said, but the offer was on the chart already in cool black ink. Two sucks for two favors, medium sized, up to a size of twenty-five each.

Draco kicked back in his seat, forcing himself to relax as the wand started to spin again. Or at least, to look relaxed. His mind was wandering now, though, turning again and again to thoughts of Father in Azkaban. Had they fed him tonight? Was he cold? Was he in pain? Was he scared?

The wand landed on Marcus while scene after scene flashed through Draco's head, each one worse than the last. He barely noticed when Marcus sneered and waved away his turn. It wasn't a surprise. Marcus was doing fine—he'd already been recruited as a Beater for one of those Sicilian teams, the type that won because they were the only ones left on their brooms at the end of the match.

Blaise reached for his wand, pulling it out of the middle of the circle. "I'll go next. If you don't mind, Draco?"

Draco nodded, grateful. Going last was an advantage. If he had two friends left at Hogwarts, it was Pansy and Blaise and he thanked Merlin they looked out for him. Greg had barely uttered two words to him since term had started, not that Draco blamed him for it. How could they look at each other without seeing Vince disappearing beneath the flames? Draco had always been the one in charge, the one they looked to for orders. Anything that happened to Vince was Draco's fault, they both knew that, no matter that it had been Vince who called the fiendfyre.

Blaise blinked lazily, drawing out the moment, and Draco braced himself for Blaise's offer. He might be a friend but he was still a Slytherin and he wouldn't pass up a chance to negotiate for favors. Plus, he wasn't adverse to cock the way Greg and Theo were, though he preferred birds when he could get them. 

"Four a week, per person." Blaise tongue flicked out of his mouth, a subtle reminder to those who had felt his lips wrapped around their cock. He didn't need to promise enthusiasm--he could just remind people of the pleasure they'd already had.

Draco tensed. He knew what he needed in terms of favors and it would be a hard enough sell as it was. If there was another strong offer on the table, he was sunk. Blaise's eyes flicked to him. Would he take pity on Draco? Let him have this?

"In return," Blaise said, a little smile coming back to flicker around the corner of his lips, "I want a hundred favors per week. Apiece."

The circle exploded. Theo laughed, Greg huffed out in disbelief, and Marcus threw his hands in the air.

"You've got a bloody fine opinion of yourself, don't you?" Marcus said, jumping up. "A hundred favors a week just to get your tongue on our cocks?"

Blaise tipped back in his chair, still smiling. "I know my own worth. Besides, they're tiny favors. No more than a one or a two each. How terrible is that?"

"You'd fucking own us, that's what's terrible about it." Marcus loomed over Blaise. "Say this, do that, come here, go away. Each little favor might be tiny but with that many of them we'll be dancing to your tune all day every day!"

Draco let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Blaise had been good to him. It was an offer Draco could beat.

Blaise shrugged. "I'm just trying to be a good prefect. Keep you berks in line. A little daily peace and quiet is worth a suck or two, even for a limp-dicked mob like you." He put his terms on the chart and turned to Draco, curiosity lighting in his eyes. "I think there's one more offer to go. Draco?"

Draco stood up with easy grace. He put his hand on Marcus's chest—fingers spread, almost a caress—and pushed him gently back into his seat. Draco waited a moment, just long enough for everyone to be reminded that he was worth looking at, then he sat again too. "Seven," he said clearly. "One per day, every day, each and every week, for every one of you."

Theo snorted. "Seven sucks every single week, for each of us? One a day? You really are desperate."

"Shut it, Theo. If he's stupid enough to offer it, don't stop him." Marcus's eyes raked up and down Draco's body. "Maybe he's that desperate for cock. Maybe he doesn’t even want anything in return. Our spunk is favor enough for you, huh?"

"Not quite." Draco wet his lips deliberately. Hey, if Blaise could do it, so would he. "I do want a favor, one from each of you. That's all I ask though. Only one."

"Just one?" Blaise had leaned forward with interest, elbow on knee, resting his head on his hand. 

"That's right," Draco said. "One ever, that is. Not per week."

Blaise's eyes crinkled with humor. He knew where this was heading, even if prats like Marcus and Theo hadn't caught on yet. "That seems very reasonable. I can certainly speak for the quality of what's on offer, if you don't mind me saying so, Draco."

"Of course not. Testimonials are always appreciated." Draco licked his lips, for real this time. His mouth had started to go dry.

"So shall we proceed to a vote?" Blaise said smoothly. "Or does anyone wish to change their offer before the first round of ballots?"

"Wait." Greg pointed at the chart without meeting Draco's eye. "He didn't say what size."

Of course Draco bloody hadn't. And Greg had to pick now, of all times, to stop ignoring him? Draco waved his hand airily. "Oh, any size."

Now even Marcus had caught on. His eyes narrowed. "You want a fucking favor of any size? Up to one hundred?"

"Yes." Draco kept his posture relaxed, as if this was nothing major. As if Father's life might not depend on this. "But it's only one and done. Not hundreds. Not something always hanging over your head." 

Marcus scrunched his nose.

"And it expires. If I don't use it by graduation, it's gone." Draco applauded himself for that touch. It didn't matter to him—Father needed favors called in _now_ —but it certainly sweetened the pot. 

Marcus frowned, considering. 

"We vote." Theo leaned forward. "Come on, let's get this done. I vote for myself, of course."

"Me too," Greg said. "I mean, I vote for me for sucker. Not Theo."

"Thank you, Greg." Blaise added a new page to the chart, tallying votes. "I understood but clarity is always appreciated. Draco, I assume you vote for yourself?"

Draco nodded yes.

"Marcus?"

Marcus shook him off. "Still thinking."

Blaise smiled. "Take your time. I vote for Draco, by the way. So that's two votes to Draco, and he wins."

Theo pointed a finger a Blaise. "Yeh, no. Marcus abstained. We renegotiate and move to a second round." He turned to Greg. "I know you want my cousin. If that's the major favor you want, consider it done. I'll talk you up to her, get you in good. In return, I get your vote."

Greg's cheeks pinked but he looked pleased. "Fine. I'm changing my vote to Theo."

"That's two for me and two for Draco." Theo leaned back in his chair. "We're tied."

"Does anyone wish to alter their offer? Give more, ask less?"

Draco held his breath. He couldn't ask for less and he doubted he could offer more. He had to have some time to study, after all. He couldn't be sucking cock twenty-four seven, even if he did have some good ideas about how to lighten the load. So to speak. "No. My offer stands as is."

Theo shook his head. "I don't want to owe this bastard—" his finger swiveled in Draco's direction, "an unlimited favor. But I'm not upping my offer. That's all I can stomach. Literally."

"I also am uninterested in changing my offer." Blaise turned to Marcus. "You're the tiebreaker then. Your vote decides it or, in the absence of a decision from you, there will be no cocksucker."

Marcus spread his legs. He was enjoying this, that was clear.

"Me on my knees in the shower before breakfast? Me after Double Potions, when you're frustrated with everything? Me when you want to fall asleep with a smile on your face?" Draco said lightly as he steeled himself against the contempt in Theo's eye. Against the way Greg wouldn't even meet his eye. "I'm offering seven a week, Marcus. You could have your choice of time and place each and every day. And all I need in return is one single favor."

Marcus was tempted, that was obvious. "These are legal favors, right? Nothing illegal?"

"Nothing illegal," Blaise confirmed.

"I don't know what you want from me that's worth it." Marcus drummed his fingers on his leg.

Frankly Draco didn't either. Not yet. But he would. He was smart and determined and he'd use this to find a way to keep Father safe. Make Father proud of him. He'd kept himself and cousin Luna safe last year this way and he might have done it on his knees but still, wasn't that an accomplishment? Not on the level of killing a Dark Lord, of course. But wasn't it something?

Marcus's lip curled up and his hand went to his flies. "How about I give you a chance to convince me. You want this, Theo? You want it, Draco? Get over here and show me how much." He pulled his flies open and yanked crudely at the bulge that was growing there.

Theo's fingers shot up in a swift get-fucked motion. "You know what a damn suck feels like. I don't need to remind you."

Marcus's gaze turned to Draco. His eyes were bright with a sadistic shine. "Then I guess the whole thing is off. Unless you want—"

Draco trembled inside. Eighteen years of pureblood training kept the tremble off his lips, kept his spine straight and his chin high. It wasn't the sex—he liked that. It was the humbling. It was Marcus showing everyone that Draco was bottom of the heap now. That he could force Draco to his knees in front of everyone. He hated that but what was pride worth when your family was in danger?

Draco put a smile on his lips and slid off his chair. He moved in front of Marcus, widened his flies, and pulled his cock out. There wasn't a lot of space to work with but unless Marcus wanted his bare arse on a Potions seat—and Draco didn't recommend that—it would have to do.

Marcus's cock was more than half-hard already. Draco stroked it, letting it firm in his hand. He loved the feel of a stiffening cock, the way it thickened, the way the foreskin tightened. Theo was saying something nasty behind his back and Greg was laughing at it but Draco shut it all out, concentrating on what was in front of him. Marcus was a right bastard but his cock was nice enough, ruddy hued and not too long to be hard to manage.

He leaned forward and started at the base, licking upwards, getting it wet enough for his hand to easily slide up and down. He rubbed as he went, tongue making little circles, and when he reached the top he spent a moment lapping lightly at that sensitive spot just below the head. Marcus's legs were spreading and Draco pulled back just enough to blow a hot breath of air over his wet cock. Marcus shuddered, hot on cold, then before the first groan could even escape from his throat, Draco was plunging his head all the way down, taking his cock to the root.

Marcus cried out and his hands flew to Draco's head, grasping him by the hair. It felt nothing like when Pansy stroked him, but still it calmed Draco a little just the same. He was doing what he needed to do to save someone he loved. He had a skill and why should he be ashamed of that, or of the fact that he loved cock? Up and down he stroked, steady now, settling into a rhythm that had Marcus whimpering and twisting. Pre-come was leaking over his tongue already, hot and bitter, and Draco opened his throat as Marcus bucked up, hips desperately seeking more friction, more sensation.

"Fuck yeah, yeah, don't stop, suck me you fucking little whore." Marcus groaned and if he said anything else it was lost beneath the pure animal sound that was coming out of his throat. Which was good because Draco didn't want to hear anything more along those lines—that cut too close—at least in this situation. Maybe somewhere else, with someone else that could be fucking hot and his mind unhelpfully supplied the image of Potter, cock shoved down Draco's throat, saying horrible, brilliant, dirty things in a low voice.

Draco's cock was suddenly so hard it hurt. His trousers rubbed painfully with every jerking motion Draco made. Fuck, no, he couldn't come from this. If there was anything worse than having to suck off Marcus while everyone watched him, graded him, judged him, it would be having them see how much it turned him on.

Marcus grunted. He wasn't polite enough to tell Draco he was going to come but Draco knew anyway. He'd been waiting for this moment. He pulled off with a wet plopping sound.

"Was that acceptable?" Draco asked politely, as if he wasn't on his knees in front of his peers, with Marcus Bloody Flint's swollen cock jerking right in front of his eyes.

"I think he wants to know if you have his vote," Blaise's amused voice drawled behind them.

"Fuck." Marcus's sides heaved. "Don't fucking stop now, you cunt."

"Do I have your vote?" Draco touched the tip of his tongue to Marcus's cock, just enough to tease. Not enough to put him over the edge.

"Yeah. You fucking have my vote. If you finish me off."

Draco opened his mouth, swallowed Marcus down, and heard him cry out again and again, as come pulsed across his tongue. That sound went right to his cock, made him want to shove his hand in his own pants and come hard while his lips were wet and slicked.

The sound that went right to his heart though, was a different one—it was the faint scratching of magic across paper on the chart over their heads. Marcus's vote, going to Draco. He had won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and feedback are deeply appreciated and keep the chapters coming!


	16. Chapter 16

Harry woke up. The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was the empty plates on the window-seat. His heart flared for the brief moment it took to roll over and see the head on the other pillow. Red hair. Not blond.

He sighed. Ron must have appreciated the midnight snack, at least.

Harry couldn't even go back to sleep. It was still dark out—the days got short early in Scotland—but it already had the feel of morning. Harry checked the time, groaning a little when he saw the green numbers that puffed from the end of his wand. It was even later than he'd thought. "Ron. Time to get up."

Ron made that flail-y motion that meant, _five more minutes, Mum_.

Harry crawled over him, called some clothes out of his trunk, and hurried off to the showers. Maybe Malfoy would be there?

Malfoy wasn't in the showers. Harry finished as quickly as he could—it took a little while to scrub the lake smell out of his hair—dressed and scrambled off to breakfast, passing a sleepy Ron who was just heading up to the showers on his way.

Malfoy wasn't at breakfast either. The Slytherins kept to their own table but Malfoy wasn't over there. A desperate curiosity seized Harry. He wanted nothing more than to jump to his feet, stalk over to the Slytherin table, and demand to know the results of their cocksucking contract. Only the smallest hair of propriety held him back. That, and the fact that he really didn't think he could ask about that, even under _Muffliato_ , while McGonagall was sitting at the High Table eating eggs and bacon.

Anyway, Harry realized with no small amount of satisfaction, he didn't need to ask anyone else. He could ask Malfoy himself. What was the point of having something as amazingly useful as the Maurader's Map if you weren't going to use it to track down pale pointy gits and ask them intrusive questions regarding their sexual preferences?

With that thought, he scooted out of the Great Hall before the last bite of breakfast had properly reached his stomach. The map had Malfoy outside the castle, down by the kitchen gardens for some reason. Herbology project, he guessed.

Harry headed in that direction, moving faster and faster until he was just short of an undignified jog. There weren't any figures around Malfoy on the map—Harry wouldn't get a better time to talk to him alone.

Harry kept his head down as he passed the sculpture garden, ignoring the marble maidens who reached long white hands out toward him. He trotted past the rose garden too, clipped and quiet. Around the corner and finally he was in a place he'd never much bothered with, though he knew the lettuces and peas and half the other vegetations, as Widley would have put it, that fed the castle were grown right here.

Rows of trellises, covered now with the brown remains of summer, hid the back of the garden from view. A thin whistling tune came from the corner beneath the trees. Harry hurried in that direction, avoiding the clumps of worms who seemed to be soaking in something very like milky tea. That was Britain, he supposed. Even the earthworms needed a cuppa before work.

Harry stepped into the grove of trees, following the lilt of the surprisingly tuneful whistle, not that he recognized the song. Something old and sad, it sounded, and maybe it was just as well there weren't any words to go with it. Long pale strands trailed from the trees above, swaying in the breeze, and looking for all the world like dangling spaghetti. Knowing Hogwarts, Harry decided, they probably were.

Harry entered a clearing and stopped. Malfoy was just in front of him, turning over the soil with a well-worn shovel. The early morning sun was dappling his hair, turning it an even brighter gold, and now that Harry was here the awkwardness had rushed back in. How could he say that he had hurried out here to find out if Malfoy liked cock every bit as much as Harry did?

Malfoy looked up, his eyes widening to see Harry. "Potter. What are you doing here?"

Harry raised an eyebrow, awkwardness melting into the pleasure of seeing Malfoy with what looked like fettuccini stuck to his shoulder. "I'm sure a much better question is what are you doing here? I never took you for the kitchen gardener type."

Malfoy flushed. "Community service. Or did you forget?"

Actually, Harry had. He'd testified for Malfoy, even if he'd refused to speak on behalf of that wretched prick of a father of his. Harry just hadn't given much thought to what that community service would entail. He guessed it made sense that at least some of it would be at Hogwarts.

Anyway, Harry didn't know why _he_ felt embarrassed about it. It wasn't his fault Malfoy had to be out here planting what looked for all the world like a row of meatballs rather than eating breakfast with the rest of the students.

Malfoy's face darkened as the silence stretched. "Come to supervise? Make sure I don't slip poison into the pasta?"

Harry squinted at the ground. "Seriously? Is that a meatball?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Were you sleeping through the section on Italian trees? Do you require remedial Herbology on the life-cycle of the Marinara Mosses?"

Harry vaguely thought he remembered something about it. Wasn't there a song that had even made it out to the Muggles? Something about a sneeze and the meatball rolling off the table? He shook that off. "I, er, came to talk to you about the contract. And also, well, about what happened yesterday. With us. The in-bed part I mean."

Malfoy's grip tightened around the shovel. He swallowed. "Of course. I should have brought that up myself. That was an inescapable rudeness, to make you mention it first." Misery suddenly sharpened his features. "I apologize unreservedly. I doubt you'll believe it, but I had no idea whatsoever that you were under a compulsion."

"I wasn't." Harry poked a meatball with the tip of his shoe. "Compelled, that is." 

Malfoy frowned. "Contracted, then. In any case, regardless of whether I understood the nature of the matter, I owe you a favor." He looked away, looked burdened to be honest. "Of any size, of course."

"A favor? Harry had no idea what Malfoy was on about. "Great. Sure. Thanks, but you don't owe me anything. I, er, enjoyed it. And, you see, I had rather thought maybe you enjoyed it too? That's what I came out to talk to you about."

Malfoy tipped his head, looking for all the world like Neville on a bad Potions day: hopelessly lost, utterly confused. "You really mean I don't owe you a favor?"

Harry nodded yes, not quite sure why that made Malfoy look a little stunned, if happy. "Actually, I came out here to apologize to you. Not the other way around." He took a breath. "Can I ask how it went, first? With choosing the Slytherin sucker?"

Malfoy dug the tip of the shovel into the earth, pushing it deep enough that it could stand by itself. "Sit with me while I eat and I'll tell you all about it."

He pulled an apple out of his pocket as they walked over to the low stone wall past the trees. Malfoy hitched himself up onto it with surprising grace—for some reason, Harry hadn't quite seen him as the type to know how to comfortably sprawl on uncushioned rock. Harry levered himself up beside Malfoy, snatching the apple Malfoy tossed his way out of the air with a Seeker's skill.

"So who won? Or lost?" Harry wasn't sure how he should put it. "I mean, who is it?"

Malfoy took an unnecessarily lascivious bite of apple, in Harry's opinion. Juice trickled down Malfoy's chin and he wiped it off with the back of his hand. "Me, of course."

A flare of excitement shot through Harry. That had to mean Malfoy liked blokes too. Really liked them, not just in a-mouth-is-a-mouth type way. That's how the contract worked. With that thought came a hard stab of conscience. "Oh god, I should have warned you. I meant to but I fell asleep. The selection process—it wasn't random." 

Malfoy licked his fingers. "Of course it wasn't random. What are you talking about?" Malfoy's look turned a little uncertain, not that Harry would have been able to pin that expression down as 'uncertain' before yesterday. "Can I ask you a question too?"

Harry nodded and took a bite of apple. He tried not to think of the type of question he hoped Malfoy would ask. Can I suck your cock?—that would be a good one. Would you like to suck mine?—that would work too. "Sure. Ask away."

"Why did you agree to be the Gryffindor sucker?" Malfoy's brow had furrowed and the uncertainty had crept even higher. "You have power. People will do anything for you already. Why would someone like you need to collect favors?"

Confusion trickled into Harry's brain, sliding through his certainty like fat, smudgey raindrops. "Why do you keep bringing up favors?"

"Because that's how the contract works, Potter." Malfoy said patiently. "Everybody bids, says what they're willing to do, how many sucks per week they'll give, etc, etc, and what they want in return. Then negotiations begin—who'll do it for less, who'll do it more often, who'll offer more favors in return. Finally everyone comes to an agreement on who the sucker will be and exactly what they get in return."

"No. It's not how it works." Harry shook his head as if he could shake that answer off. His fingers tightened, bruising the apple in his fist. "The twins said the sucker is chosen randomly but what actually happens is that one by one, people are eliminated, starting with whoever most doesn't want to do it." Harry took a breath. "Finally, one bloke is left. The bloke who most likes cock. He has to er, service his dormmates whenever they want. _That's_ how the contract works."

Malfoy snorted, loud and incredulous. "Maybe the Gryffindor one works that way. The Slytherin one doesn't." A short laugh barked out. "Pull the other one, Potter. Honestly, who would agree to that? Unlimited BJs? Nothing given in return? That's madness!"

Shame slid along Harry's skin, hot and prickly. His neck was probably turning red. He hadn't felt this small and stupid since Aunt Petunia had caught him looking at shirtless pictures of footballers. "You don't like blokes? Is that what you're saying?"

Malfoy looked genuinely confused. "What does that have to do with it?"

"Everything!" Harry smacked the apple down, sending little white chunks flying. "Why would you agree to suck cock for any reason other than that you secretly want to suck cock? Favors? Negotiations? What kind of Slytherin shite is this?"

Malfoy slid off the wall. His back had gone rigid and his face was turned away. "In case you haven't noticed, my family isn't exactly popular right now. Getting nearly drowned in my dorm room yesterday isn't even the worst thing that's happened this year. You truly can't imagine why I need favors?"

"What favors do you need? What are you talking about?" Harry pushed off the wall too, landing with a thump that sounded angry even to his own ears. "Protection, is that it? Are they fucking with you? Hurting you?"

Harry felt the blood rushing in his ears. He hadn't been this angry since he'd been sharing his head with a snake-faced bastard. What had they been doing to Malfoy? "Who's got the contract? Is it Zabini?"

"I'm doing what I need to do! No one's making me do anything I don't want to, Blaise least of all--"

Harry's magic pulsed around him, black and fierce. "Tell me what the fuck is going on--!"

Malfoy gave him a scared look, then grabbed the shovel and hurried off. Harry knew that expression—he'd seen it on Malfoy's face at the age of eleven, running from a dead unicorn and the black-cloaked thing that hovered over it.

Harry pushed his magic down, suddenly ashamed. He could get a little scary when he was mad, he knew that. Killing a Dark Lord didn't hurt your reputation either. He opened his mouth to call after Malfoy, then paused, and let him go. He'd talk to Zabini first. He'd find Malfoy later. Make sure he knew that he wasn't the one Harry was mad at.

Anyway, he knew just where Zabini was. The bastard had Arithmancy with Hermione. Harry had seen the color-coded schedule on the wall enough times to know that's where they'd be right now. If he hurried, he could catch Zabini just as it let out.

He turned Malfoy's answers over in his head as he pounded up the stairs to the upper classrooms. Malfoy hadn't said he didn't like blokes. He hadn't said he did though, either. But it'd certainly seemed like he enjoyed it a whole bollocks-load when they'd been in bed together yesterday. 

Harry slipped into an alcove as Hermione walked by, nose still pressed to her Arithmancy book. He eased out then poked his head into the classroom.

Professor Vector looked up. She blinked, as if it took a moment to place him—after a summer of dealing with star-struck fans, Harry loved that about her—then said, "Mr. Potter. Can I help you?"

"I was looking for Zabini. Is he still here?"

"In the arithmancy lab." She pointed a finger at a door at the back of the classroom.

Harry scurried through the door before she could start asking questions. Like why he'd come up here for the first time in his entire Hogwarts career. Or why he needed to talk to the Slytherin prefect. Or why his hair was standing straight up, the way it always did when he got really angry.

He stopped short on the other side, goggling at the round room in front of him. The door snicked closed behind him. Equations covered the walls, pulsing as they drifted across the surface of the stone. They rolled like waves, growing larger and larger then tumbling over each other like breaking surf.

"Potter?" Zabini stood in the middle of the room. His wand was raised and he seemed, for all the world, to be conducting the equations in some kind of soundless symphony. "This isn't your usual haunt."

"I need to talk to you. I think you know why."

Zabini raised one perfect quizzical eyebrow. "I really don't." He twitched his wand and the equations swirled. "Unless you've come to learn what 'x' really equals? Or you yearn to solve for 'y'?"

"Shut it, Zabini." The fury was back at full force. "I came to tell you to break the contract with Malfoy. He told me he's doing it for favors. Why does he need favors?"

"I think that's for Draco to say, if he wishes to." Zabini's face was cool and closed, giving nothing away. "So kind of you to worry about a friend of mine though, and a Slytherin, no less. There's a first time for everything, I suppose."

"Does he even like blokes?" Harry blurted out. The spinning equations were making him dizzy. "You shouldn't make someone who doesn't even like, you know, that, do things, you know, like that."

"Eloquent as always, Potter." Zabini turned back to the wall, facing a complicated series of curlicues that had just started to smoke. He sighed. "This really would be a conversation best conducted with Draco. Still, I suppose I should be delighted that you're asking anyone at all. Stopping to ask questions was never your forte."

"My forte is cleaning up fucking Slytherin messes. Which you ought to appreciate."

Zabini nodded. "True. Which is why I'm going to answer your question." He tipped his head as if he was considering the math, but his gaze was focused somewhere much further away than that. "You don't know much about pureblood society, do you?"

"I know they're bloody shite on the subject of the Muggleborn." 

"I'll take that for a 'no'. What you said is true of course—and deplorable, in my opinion—but deep-seated prejudice is hardly the only pureblood tradition." Zabini flicked his wand and the equation smoked harder then disappeared in a puff of cinnamon-scented ash. Another equation, blue and pulsing, took its place. "Pureblood society is all about breeding, you understand that?"

Harry nodded impatiently. What did this have to do with Malfoy and sucking cocks? "Of course."

Zabini shot him a look. "Literal breeding, you understand me. Not just the metaphorical, use-the-right-teaspoon type of 'good breeding'. Making sure your offspring procreates with the right person is of utmost importance in those quarters."

"OK. I can see that." Harry scuffed the floor with a ragged trainer.

"Can you? Can you understand that while sending your child to Hogwarts for a first-rate magical education is necessary, it also represents a very real risk for the upper-crust? Your precious only son, sharing a common room with a half-dozen pureblood girls whose parents are pushing them to lure him into bed?" Zabini twitched his wand and the equation began to spin. "If your son gets some pureblood girl up the duff, Potter, he's got to marry her. You might be able to ignore a Muggleborn's bastard, but if some pureblood's precious flower lures your son into an ill-considered liaison, you're buggered. There's nothing you can do. He's got to marry her and her family—whether you care to be allied with them or not—has just gotten their foot in your ancient family door." 

"So what—"

"It's not just prestige, Potter. There's a tremendous amount of money on the line. Think corporate takeover, at cunt-point. That's what the Malfoys, and others like them through the ages, feared."

Harry grabbed his hair and tugged. Why were they talking about pregnancy when he wanted to talk about cocks? "So Malfoy's parents were afraid that he'd get Pansy preggers and have to marry her? That's what you're saying?"

"Not just Pansy—who wouldn't have, by the way, as she's made a life out of spitting in her wretched social-climbing mother's eye—but a half-dozen others. The Bulstrodes, the Greengrasses, the Davises. Draco was quite the prize before his daddy's fall from grace. Lucius needed to make sure his little boy didn't plant a seed in an unacceptable twat, you know, and of course he did it in the most traditional of ways."

Harry gave his hair a final sharp tug. Any minute now he'd have the courage—or lack of social grace, whichever—to just yell, _does Malfoy like cock?_ " It's not the middle ages. There are charms for contraception."

"Charms for girls, you mean. There aren't any that are particularly effective for males, or that don't have horrendous side-effects at any rate. An inch-thick pelt of brown fur, for instance." Zabini gave a little unamused smile, still not looking at Harry. "Except for one. It's more than a charm, of course. Many people consider it Dark Arts."

A nasty feeling was coming over Harry. His voice dropped lower. "What did Lucius do? Tell me."

"He took Draco's heterosexuality away." Zabini whispered to the wall and the equation bloomed into an ugly twist of thorns. "See? That's the arithmantic equation for how to change your child's sexual preference. No reputable modern Healer would do it, but there's plenty of old-school Dark Arts practioners from Eastern Europe and Russia who know it well."

"He ripped out Malfoy's desire to fuck? Malfoy doesn't like sex?"

"Oh, Lucius isn't cruel." Zabini laughed. "Oh, wait. He is. Of course he would have removed Draco's sexuality entirely if he could. That doesn't work so well, though. Hard to put it back. Better to change it a little. Lock him into liking cock instead of cunt. Make him quite unable to tolerate the thought of cunt, in fact. That way he couldn't impregnate the wrong girl."

"Lucius made Malfoy bent so he couldn't get a girl up the duff? So Lucius could control who inherited the Malfoy estate?" Weird, bad feelings whirled inside Harry. 

"Yes, yes, and yes. Exactly." Zabini looked down. "It’s not unusual, you know. Not in pureblood circles." 

"That's wrong!" Harry stared at the wall. The equation had changed again. It didn't show numbers now so much as a scene. Malfoy, small, looking like he had the summer before they had started Hogwarts. Malfoy, trying to look brave as he sat on a bed in a hospital gown, staring at a thick-bearded man in Healer's green. "That's horrible! It shouldn't be allowed!"

Zabini shrugged. "You don't need to convince me of that. Reformers have tried to ban it, of course, but they can't get it past the traditionalist faction. It's too much a part of pureblood culture."

"But there has to be a way to reverse it. For when they find an acceptable girl. When they want to marry off their heir."

"Of course." Zabini flicked his wand and the numbers on the wall moved until now they outlined an older Draco Malfoy, staring at a silver key in a black box. "It's perfectly easy to twist it back, if you have the key. It's like entering 'x' instead of 'y', and voila, there's the answer you're looking for."

Harry couldn't tear his eyes away from the silver key. "That's his real sexuality? The key to it, at least?"

Zabini turned with a sharp look. "His _original sexuality_. What he has now is just as real. Realer, maybe. They changed him when he hit puberty. He never had the chance to do much more than snog a few girls before he lost his taste for it."

Harry felt increasingly ill. He'd got the answer he wanted—Malfoy did in fact love cock—but the reason was so wrong. "Where is it? The key. That's what's needed to put him right?"

Zabini's eyes closed and when they opened, slowly, the anger in them flashed hard and bright. "Don't. Don't you ever say he needs to be made right. Don't you dare tell him that he's wrong the way he is."

Harry didn't understand. Wouldn't it be worse if Harry didn't want to fix it? Wouldn't it be taking advantage? "I asked you where that key is. Tell me."

Zabini shook his head with finality, anger fading into something sadder. "No. Now you talk to Draco. I've told you more than enough, maybe more than I should have. Anything else is for him to say."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and feedback are much appreciated and keep the chapters coming!


	17. Chapter 17

Draco swallowed, stuffed Greg's cock back in his pants, and sat up. He didn't meet Greg's eyes—not that he could have. Greg was staring resolutely up at the canopy over the bed, eyes fixed on the Gryffindor red-and-goldness of it. Being this close to Greg after so much time avoiding each other was weird and awful but also strangely good. Like ripping a bandage off to see how bad the wound was when you'd been pretending you hadn't been hurt at all. Hell, he'd been nearly started calling him 'Goyle' in his head, as if they'd never been friends at all. 

Draco stretched, hearing his jaw pop as he worked the cramp out. He'd done Theo and Marcus this morning, so he only had Blaise left to go, which wasn't too bad given it was just now coming up on dinner time. "Finished up that essay for Charms yet?"

Greg tensed but didn't say anything, not even to ask for help on it. Draco bit his lip. He'd thought that with everyone else gone and a little after-glow going on, maybe he and Greg could start to talk again. Stupid, maybe. When had he and Greg ever talked? It had always been a physical kind of closeness between them, not attraction, just comfort. The safety of feeling Greg beside him on the common room couch, large and strong. But if Greg was on one side of him, it had always been Vince on the other, and that was the problem now, wasn't it?

Footsteps rang on the stairs and suddenly the door banged open, hitting the wall with an audible shudder. Draco wiped his mouth, checking for stray traces of come, before swiveling to see who it was who'd been raised in some kind of door-banging-open barn.

Potter. Of course. A strange thrill filled Draco's belly, a mixed feeling of nerves and desire.

"Malfoy." Potter stopped and rubbed a hand through his hair, taking it with one wild swipe from 'tangled brush' to 'angry hedgehog'. 

"Yes," Draco said finally, as he slid off the bed and grabbed his tie, knotting it loosely around his neck. "That is my name. Well done. Did you scamper up all those steps to check on that?"

Potter's eyes narrowed and he finally stepped into the room. His magic crackled a little stronger, though if anything it seemed to be directed at Greg, not Draco. 

Circe only knew what the git was mad about now. Had he changed his mind about wanting the Slytherins here? Gotten tired of his little adopted puppy of a House now that he had to live with them? Resentment flared through Draco. "We're allowed to be here. The Weasel assigned this bed to us."

Potter's lips turned down in an actual sad little frown. Gryffindors and their visible emotions—it would be useful, if they ever felt anything that made sense.

"You're sharing a bed with Goyle?"

"No. I do, strangely enough, have some mattress space of my own. I meant 'us' in a House sense. Slytherins on this side of the room," Draco waved at the tightly-packed beds on the near side. Then he pointed to the other side. "Gryffindors over there."

"What's it to you?" Greg was up now too, trousers closed, and standing behind Draco. It was almost heart-warming, having Greg at his back again. "You're not even in this room. Weasel said you've got something better than this. You're the one shouldn't be in here, not us."

Potter advanced on Greg, sidestepping around Draco. "What does Malfoy need from you? Are you threatening him? Why does he need favors?"

Alarm stirred inside Draco. He really, really did not want Greg to open his mouth right now and start talking about Lucius Malfoy. Not that Draco was ashamed of trying to help Father—there was nothing more honorable than protecting your family. Still, he hardly expected Potter to understand that. So. Time to really start a nice, distracting fight. He reached out and shoved Potter.

Potter's eyes lit up. See—that was what Draco meant. What use was it to see a Gryffindor's emotions if you couldn't fathom what they meant? Take right now. Potter's arms were wind-milling, he was tripping backwards across the rug, and yet he looked suddenly delighted.

Potter steadied, caught himself on a bedpost, and flung himself back toward Draco with a happy bellow. He grabbed a fistful of shirt and Draco braced himself to be shoved back. Instead he felt himself hauled in and then they were tumbling together on the rug. Coarse wool swiped the side of his face as they wrestled, hands grappling, legs intertwined, each trying to pin the other. 

Potter was strong and pressing against him everywhere, from chest to arms to legs. Draco's cock went hard so fast that the blood might as well have apparated into it—sucking Greg had left him limp but now it was damn enthusiastic about the body wrapped around him, trying to wrestle him into submission.

On the next roll, he could see Greg standing near the bed, feet shuffling in indecision. Should he help? Should he leave? Draco could practically read his mind—never a hard thing when it came to Greg. Frankly he hoped Greg buggered off. This wasn't a fight Draco wanted to be saved from.

"I'm going to _make_ you talk to me, Malfoy." Potter said. Except it wasn't like that. It was one word at a time as they rolled back and forth, each time Potter was on top. Draco was almost glad each time his grip gave and he went underneath again—at least he got to hear the next word in the sentence.

"Make me?" Draco said, which was much smarter because it was only two words and it saved his breath for wrestling. He was losing—Potter had gotten broad and muscled sometime in the last year—but Draco had too much pride to go down easily. "You don't have the bollocks for it."

Potter's cock jumped when he said those words. Draco knew that because it was pressed insistently against his hip.

"I'll show you bollocks," Potter said, his lips curling up in a smile against Draco's neck.

Potter moved somehow—it was too fast to feel exactly what happened—but all of a sudden Draco found himself face down under Potter, the rug's rough fibers rubbing against his cheek. Fuck, the rug was rubbing against him everywhere, not just his cheek. Even through his clothes, he felt it on his nipples, his cock. A grunt spilled out of his mouth and his legs spread helplessly.

The only consolation was that Potter's cock was just as hard, nestled into the crack of his arse. Potter panted and wrenched Draco's arm back and up, pinning him in place. It wasn't quite enough to hurt but Draco had to arch his back to keep the position. Potter's cock sank a little deeper into the groove between Draco's arse-cheeks and he dug in, his knees forcing Draco's legs a little further apart.

"See? I said I'd show you." Potter pulled Draco's arm a little higher, forcing him into an undignified squeak.

"Whatever he's done, I'm sure he deserved it," came a mocking voice from the doorway.

Draco yanked his head up enough to see Theo standing there, looking cool and unrumpled and amused. Marcus was just behind him, peering around to see what was going on.

"If he needs a good kicking, Potter, you don't have to get your own hands dirty." Theo strolled forward, stopping with his shoes nudging Draco's bottom lip. "We're happy to do it for you. We'll hurt him as much as you like, mate."

Potter let out an inarticulate cry and leaped up, pushing off of Draco's back. The air whooshed out of Draco's lungs and he almost missed seeing Potter's hands come up and violently shove Theo back, away from Draco's face. Theo stumbled back and Potter went after him and it was nothing like Potter wrestling Draco to the ground—this was serious.

Circe's sake, how often did Potter get into fights? This was two in two days—no wonder the Dark Lord had lost. Potter clearly trained by fighting constantly, with everyone. Before Draco could climb to his feet, though, Marcus had pushed Theo and Potter apart, putting a couple hundred pounds of solid Beater muscle in between the pair of them.

"No more fighting." Marcus planted his feet. Theo looked relieved, to be honest. Potter still looked mad. "Don't want McGonagall thinking this isn't working. Had enough fuss moving in here. Not moving somewhere else."

"Right." For some reason, that seemed to matter to Potter. "I don't want you moved out either." He bent down and pulled Draco to his feet. "Come on. I'm not leaving you here."

Draco found himself urged out of the room and down the stairs. He felt like he ought to protest, for form's sake if nothing else, but honestly he was glad to be out of there. Theo had been sullen since Draco had won the contract. He'd be positively poisonous now the Chosen One had upset the status quo by intervening on Draco's behalf.

Potter would never understand that. Draco hadn't understood it himself when he was little, he reflected as Potter tugged him further down the stairs. Father had explained it to him once, when some house elf—probably Dobby, he'd always been such a meddler—had noticed that Draco had been sobbing like an idiot for days and insisted that Father talk to him.

This is what had happened: they'd had a crup, a fine pedigreed bitch who'd been bred to the Greengrasses's prizewinner. She'd had puppies, four of them. Three strong and healthy and one smaller boy, the weakest of the litter. The other pups had picked at the little one, snapped at him, kept him from eating. Draco had hated that—he'd scolded the other puppies, and stopped the biting, and brought the little one up to the dish to eat first, to make sure he got enough food.

Then one day Draco hadn’t been paying enough attention and another puppy, the snappy liver-colored one, had found his little boy curled up alone in the basket. And killed him.

Father explained it was Draco's fault. If you interfere with the natural hierarchy, it only makes things worse, he'd said. The little puppy should have been learning his place, not getting food it hadn't earned.

That's what Potter needed to understand. Draco was at the bottom now and intervening would only make things more dangerous. Potter would get tired of him and wander off and then Draco would be at the mercy of whoever wanted to give him that kicking. It was how things worked and it didn't matter how much you hated it or how long you spent sobbing.

Even with that image in his mind—his poor broken pup in his hands, the very tiny grave that Dobby had dug for him—Draco couldn't stop himself from trailing after Potter just like that pup had dogged his own heels. Every touch made him feel a little warmer, a little safer, a little happier, illusion though it was.

Potter led the way through a false door and continued down the stairs below the level of the common room. Draco appreciated that. At least they weren't going higher in the tower. Finally they came to a landing and Potter threw open a door.

Draco drew a breath. Greg had been right. It was nicer than what they had upstairs. Sunlight spilled in across a white-sheeted bed that took up nearly the entire room. It was clean and fresh in here, not dense with the funk of too many boys in too small a space.

"You'll stay here with me," Potter said authoritatively. He nudged Draco inside with a warm hand on his back. "Ron won't mind."

Draco doubted that very seriously but he kept his mouth shut and fell back on his manners. "It's lovely. Thank you for inviting me."

"Sure!" Potter kicked off his shoes and jumped onto the bed, sliding across to the far side and patting the bed beside him. "Come on. I'll get your stuff sent down."

Potter pulled out his wand, tapped it on his own pillow, and did an Aguamenti. Water poured out, maybe a cupful or so before Potter turned it off. Draco gaped, confused, but removed his shoes and climbed on the bed too.

"Make a mess and a house elf will come and fix it," Potter said with a conspiratorial smile. "There's no official way to summon them but I've found this works great."

Maybe if you were Harry Bloody Potter it worked, Draco thought. He couldn't see an elf giving good goddamn if a Slytherin pillow got soaked.

Sure enough though, a moment later, a little elf popped into view, a fresh pillow clutched in her hands. "Your pillow be all wetted, but don't you worry sir, Widley is here!" She switched them out, the plump new pillow replacing the old one, which disappeared off to wherever Hogwarts pillows got cleaned. She beamed at Potter. "Is there anything else Widley can be for you doing, sir? Anything at all?"

Potter beamed right back at her. "Yes, thank you very much, Widley. Can you fetch Mr. Malfoy's things from upstairs? He'll be moving into this room with me."

Widley turned dubious eyes on Draco, which he thought was a little unfair. He'd never been an elf-kicker. He'd generally tried to avoid them at the Manor. If they weren't getting him in trouble, he was getting them in trouble. Father hadn't liked to see him tumbling around with elves—it wasn't becoming, he had said.

"Of course, Harry Potter, sir. Widley will be bringing them at once!" She disappeared with a pop, her toga fluttering as she went.

Potter swallowed and leaned back against the pillows, hands behind his head. He looked like he was trying very hard to seem relaxed, which was a difficult thing to accomplish with your trousers tented like that, in Draco's opinion. His own hard-on had disappeared on the way down the stairs. Thoughts of Father tended to do that.

Widley popped back in a moment later and Potter leaped into showing her where to stow Draco's things. He almost couldn't believe it. Potter really was serious about Draco staying here? Part of him expected Potter to laugh and say he just wanted to see Draco's face when he threw him out and how could he ever think that Potter would have wanted him to stay?

That had happened to Pansy a few years back. Theo's older brother had told her how much he loved her, taken her virginity, then kicked her out of bed. Hadn't even let her stay the night and what did Draco have to offer that was even as good as that? Not virginity, that was for damn sure. Pansy had spent the rest of the night curled up in Draco's bed, tears soaking his pyjamas.

He listened with one ear to Potter telling Widley something else—ordering dinner for them in bed?—while remembering Theo's brother. Dead now, a deatheater killed in the Hogwarts battle, and Draco wasn't sorry about _that_ , even if he'd tried to be sorry for Theo.

Potter eased back against the pillow as Widley disappeared, an awkward smile on his face. "You don't mind? I thought maybe we could talk? If we went down to dinner we'd be at different tables."

Draco eased back against a pillow too. The Weasel's, it had to be, and wasn't this one of the weirder things the war had ever wrought: Draco Malfoy, lounging on Ronald Weasley's pillow, dining in bed with Harry Potter?

Potter plucked at his standard white school button-down. "Er, Malfoy? Can I ask you a question?"

Draco tipped his head, considering the risks and benefits. "You want a proper exchange of questions and answers? With monitoring for deception and deceit?"

Potter snorted, then smiled. "What I want is to know more about you. To talk. You know, that kind of thing. But if there's some true Slytherin way to do that and it makes you feel more comfortable, then fine." He pulled at a button. "I'm starting to realize there are a lot of differences in the way Gryffindors and Slytherins do things. Maybe we'd get on better, as Houses, and also, er, as people, if we all knew that."

Draco adjusted the pillow behind him and stretched out a bit. It was easier to talk side-by-side than face-to-face. "Okay. Yes. If we do it properly. We don't have Veritaserum but do you have a sneakoscope?"

Potter nodded and scrambled off the bed, digging through things under the bed and hopping back up with a little brass sneakoscope. Father would kill him—always use your own sneakoscope, someone else's could be tampered with—but he just didn't believe Potter would do that. Besides, he hadn't known Draco would ask for one and how likely was it that he had a doctored scope handy in his trunk?

Potter put the scope on the bed between them and gave Draco a funny look before he lay back against the pillow again. "I'd ask you what you were thinking but I don't want to waste a question on that. I'm starting to suspect it isn't anything a Gryffindor would think." He paused then added, "And, er, that doesn't mean I think it's necessarily bad. Just different."

Draco drew a breath. He could do this. Potter was honorable in that unfathomable Gryffindor way. He wouldn't use what he learned against Draco. "I am Salazar Slytherin," he said, starting things off traditionally.

Potter's eyebrows raised but the sneakoscope had already started to spin and after a second he seemed to get it. "Oh. I see. You're testing to make sure it works."

"Standard rules. You suggested this. That means I ask first." There was some advantage to going first, Draco knew. A good question could throw your opponent off for the whole session. There was a little more advantage to going last, though. You got to hear the other's final question before asking your own. " No initial limit on number of questions, but either party can end the session as long as each has had an equal number of turns. Refusal to answer is allowed, but the asking party may continue to pose questions until one is answered."

Potter had a look on his face that was somewhere between astonishment and laughter. "See, that's what I mean. You really do do things differently from us. I agree to all that, of course, but I'd really like to be able to get into the things we ask each other. Talk about them properly."

"You mean can we ask an unlimited number of follow-up questions exploring the answer?" Draco thought about it. "Yes, that's acceptable as long as the answering party can call a halt to it at any time."

"Merlin, Malfoy. Of course I'll stop if you're uncomfortable. That's basic etiquette." Potter shook his head. "I'm starting to think that growing up in your House wasn’t exactly peaches and cream." He settled back, knees bent, stockinged feet flat on the bed. "Okay, ask away."

Draco considered for a moment but he already knew what he really wanted to ask. "How did you inherit the old Black place? The one in London. I've never been able to figure that out."

"From Sirius, of course. He was my godfather."

Draco glanced at the sneakoscope but it wasn't spinning. " _Sirius Black_? That nutcase who escaped from Azkaban when we were third years?"

Widley popped back in, two covered bowls in her hands with spoons somehow balanced on top. "Mr. Harry Potter, sir! Here is you having your dinner, it being beginning with the soup course, which tonight is a squashed pumpkin creamed and well-seasoned."

Potter looked mulish—at Draco, not at Widley. He took one bowl as Draco took the other and thanked Widley, assuring her that they didn't need beverages until the main course came. Which Draco agreed with. He didn't need pumpkin juice with his pumpkin soup, which had a slice of bread on the side, which was probably also pumpkin.

"He wasn't a nutcase!" Potter said with some heat as soon as Widley popped off. "He was innocent and he was wonderful and he was best friends with my dad at school. I would have gone to live with him in a heartbeat if I could have."

"Potter, they had the whole school on lock-down for a year because Sirius Black was trying to kill you. Dementors everywhere—remember them? The Gryffindor portrait that got knifed? Any of this ring a bell? That's not exactly saying happy families to me."

"Dumbledore tried to have his name cleared! He didn't have a fair trial! If he'd lived it would all have come out."

The sneakoscope wasn't spinning. Potter believed Black was innocent. Potter had loved Black. A little happy feeling bubbled up inside Draco. Not many people loved the Blacks. "My mother is a Black, you know."

Harry caught his eye and smiled. Then it faded. "Bellatrix was a Black too. She killed Sirius." He blinked fast a few times on eyes that had gone a little watery. "You didn't know any of this? Lucius must have known. I'm surprised he didn't tell you."

Draco raised his chin. "He was a busy man, Potter. He didn't have time to sit around discussing your family relationships with me. I'm sure he never gave it two thoughts."

Potter stopped. "You're not mad, are you? That I inherited Grimmauld Place? Did you want it?"

Draco laughed out loud. "I _hated_ that place. Of course, it wasn't the house's fault. It was my Great Aunt Walburga. My mother had to take me over there sometimes—family obligations—but she was so absolutely horrible that you can't imagine it."

"I can!" Potter lit up, laughing too. "Her portrait is in the entryway and even in paint she's unbelievably awful. We put curtains over her to shut her up but she keeps finding ways to open them. It's awfully embarrassing having people over when you know your artwork is going to shriek at them."

Draco bit his lip, feeling sheepish, but hell, as long as they were confessing things-- "She's my boggart, you know."

Potter snickered. "Sorry." He pressed his lips closed but another snicker escaped, then another. "Oh, god, sorry, I shouldn't laugh but oh, bugger, if I'd met her when I was little, she'd probably be mine too."

"Just because you have a cool boggart. A boggart who's actually dangerous." Draco tried not to snicker too but it was like being with Pansy or Blaise—laughing felt safe in here. Fun. Not cutting, like in the common room.

Widley returned, whisking away their soup bowls while their laughs tapered off and they pulled themselves together. Potter's hand had strayed close to Draco's and he wanted to take it, to feel those broad fingers laced in his.

Widley returned with two trays, lovingly explaining the obvious--that this was shepherd's pie and pumpkin juice and etcetera, etctera—Draco stopped listening and just helped get everything arranged.

"Regulus Black," Potter said, once Widley was gone and they had settled themselves in front of the trays, facing each other cross-legged on the bed. "Sirius's younger brother."

Draco nodded. He knew. Aunt Andromeda had been close with Sirius, but Regulus had always been his mother's favorite. "My mother mourned for him," he said a little defiantly, with a glance at his own left arm where his Mark lay hidden beneath his shirt. "I know he was a deatheater, but my mother cared about him. She always tried to look out for him when they were at school together."

"Good." Potter said around a bite of pie, manner-less beast that he was. He finished the bite and tried again. "I mean, yes, it's good your mother cared about him but also, Regulus had a lot of good in him. You wouldn’t believe how badly he narked off Voldemort. He stole this thing, a—well, never mind what it was, it's too complicated to get into right now—but anyway, Regulus tried to hurt Voldemort by taking something very important to him. That's how he got killed."

Draco goggled. "Regulus? Betrayed the Dark Lord and died fighting him?"

Potter nodded. "Lucius must have known that too. It was deatheaters who Voldemort sent to kill Regulus so that part wasn't a secret in those circles." A ghost of a look crossed Potter's face. "Lucius really didn't tell you much, did he?"

Draco bristled, hard and fast. "Being the heir doesn't mean a daily tete-a-tete. If you're insinuating we weren't close--"

"I just meant, well, I thought I was close to Dumbledore, but it turned out I didn't even know we were both from the same village. It wasn't quite the relationship I thought it was."

Draco glared at Potter. There was no comparison. Father was Father. Of course they were close.

"All right. Sorry. Didn't mean to hit a nerve." Potter shifted, fingers tracing a nervous pattern on the sheets. "My turn for a question. I was going to ask you about something else. But talking about all this—well, it makes me feel like I need to ask something else first."

Draco tensed. Was Potter going to ask more about Father? He'd never understand Draco's need to help him. He'd think it was some deatheater-saving-deatheater thing. Not a son doing what was right. 

"Er, what I want to know is, how do you feel about Voldemort now? Did you stop supporting him by the end?"

"Potter, I stopped supporting him five minutes after I met him."

Potter's glance strayed to the sneakoscope, which hadn't budged. Draco knew it wouldn't. He was telling the absolute truth about this. He tucked into his pie happily, waiting for the follow-up question.

"Why?" Potter poked at a wilted bit of lettuce. "I mean, I thought you were brought up to revere him or something."

Draco colored, but what the hell. "Voldemort was rude to Mother. I could tell right away that she didn't want him in the house but he wouldn't leave. He _liked_ that she wanted him to leave but couldn't make him." Draco felt the fire of helplessness that had burned all last year. "He took things of hers, you know, pictures, keepsakes, little trinkets. They weren't valuable, most of them, it was just that she loved them and it hurt her when he stole them." He blinked back a tear, feeling stupid about crying about things like Grandmother's last picture being ripped to little pieces when so many other things had been lost. "He enjoyed destroying them. He liked to watch her face when he did it."

"Anyway, Potter," Draco said, going on, "no, I wasn't brought up to revere him." He wasn't going to mention the Harry-Potter-Is-Our-Hero children's book his mother had read to him when he was little. He might have to tell the truth but he didn't have to utterly embarrass himself. "Father was busy distancing himself from all of that after the first wizarding war. He supported pureblood culture, of course, but he never said he supported the Dark Lord."

Draco shivered and pushed his tray away. It had been a shock when Father had taken the glamour off his arm and shown his Mark for the first time. Draco hadn't wanted to believe it at first but the alternative was, what? Not to trust the man who had fed and clothed him all his life?

Potter's mouth moved in sympathy and suddenly the trays were sliding over to the windowsill, out of the way. He pulled Draco into his lap and fell back against the pillows. "All right?"

Draco drew a deep breath and relaxed into Potter's arms, not even caring how pathetic he might look. It had been a bad bloody few years and was it so bad to want to feel comfort like this for a little while? "My turn?" He considered his options while he felt Potter nod yes. "Hmm. Okay. I'd like to know how you got your name in the Goblet of Fire fourth year. Everyone under seventeen tried but you were the only one who managed it."

Widley brought treacle tart and took the trays away, while Potter explained, rueful and laughing, in between sticky bites of shared tart, that no, he really hadn't done it. He told Draco everything, all the things that had happened that year, from the tasks to the fake Moody, until Draco's eyes were about ready to pop out of his head. There might have been kisses, too, mouthed back and forth, the crook of a neck, the wrist, the fingers needing to have each crumb sucked away.

"My turn," Potter said finally. He drew a breath and squeezed Draco tighter. "Don't be mad? Please? But I really need to know this. Zabini said, er, well, you know, about a key? And a pureblood thing about making your heir want not want girls? Is it true that Lucius did that to you?"

Draco froze. Literally, it felt. He suddenly felt cold all the way from head to toe, chilled against Potter's heat. "What else did Blaise tell you?"

"Nothing. He said I should talk to you." Potter's hands stilled on Draco's sides. "Are you angry? That I asked?"

Draco wasn't sure if he was angry or not. He genuinely wasn't sure. "I don't know," he said experimentally, looking at the sneakoscope. It didn't move. He huffed out a little laugh. "See?"

"Are you going to answer?"

"Why do you want to know?" 

Potter mouthed Draco's neck. "Really? You can't guess?"

Draco rubbed his toes together, fast enough to start a fire. Maybe that way he could warm up. Maybe it had been done to Potter too? That must be it. He'd thought the Potters were too progressive for that, but then again, they were rich. Father said reformers like that talked a good line about getting the procedure banned, but when it came to protecting their own money, they still did it. Potter's parents were dead but his father's will had probably stipulated it.

"Yes?" Draco said hesitantly, finally answering the question. He might as well. Potter already knew this part of it, thanks to bloody-fucking-Blaise. "Yes. They did it to me." 

Potter's hand had gone tense on Draco's side, fingers tight against his ribs. "So there's a key to fix it, right? You'll be changing back?"

The coldness flooded back into Draco so fast he might as well have been back in the Slytherin dorm, chilled through with ever-rising icy water. He didn't want Potter to know this. It was too raw, too humiliating. How could he tell Potter that he was permanently changed? "Did Blaise say anything about that?"

Draco couldn't help the images crowding into his head. Him, on his knees before the Dark Lord in Father's study. The hearth crackling. His father's back turned. Mother, crying in the hallway. That had shaken him more than anything, to see Mother all undone.

Draco hadn't understood at first what the Dark Lord meant to do. He'd known there'd be a price to pay for failing to kill Dumbledore. He'd just thought it would be Cruciatus or some other torture. He hadn't understood when the Dark Lord had brought out the black velvet box and opened it, revealing the key inside.

It had taken a few moments to realize that this was the key meant for Draco's wedding day, the one that would unlock his desire for women. The one he needed to carry on the Malfoy line. The Dark Lord had waited until Draco understood. It was more amusing that way, he supposed.

The Dark Lord hadn't been flashy about it. No _Diffindo_ , slashing the key in two. No _Reducto_ , blowing it apart. He'd just plucked the key out of the box and tilted it this way and that, letting it catch the light. Then he'd thrown it into the fire blazing in the hearth.

He'd left Draco on his knees, with a perfect eye-view of the flames. They danced upwards from the burning wood, crackling merrily. The key—his key—had lain there on the topmost log. It had shimmered in the fire at first and Draco had wondered, hoped, if maybe it was strong enough to withstand the heat.

The Dark Lord had spoken to Father about this and that. Nothing important. That wasn't the point. The point was to make Draco watch and to be sure Father shared in his shame.

It had taken a long time for the key to melt. The shaft had weakened first and the ends had bent, draping across the log as if lounging on a chaise, lazy and seductive. The curlicued handle had gone next, its shape loosening and twisting. The end had softened last and then the magic had run out, rendered like pig fat into a slick film that stained the log. That too disappeared as the fire crackled on, little silver sparks that winked and blinked and disappeared. Finally there was nothing left but ashes and soot and a burnt metallic smell.

Draco felt a sudden sickening clarity. He pulled out of Potter's embrace and rolled to the other side of the bed. He understood exactly why Potter was asking. It happened all the time. Potter was looking for some fun before he got changed back. A temporary boyfriend, one in the same boat as Potter: a pureblood who would be going straight soon too. A boyfriend who wouldn’t make a fuss when Potter ditched him for some girl.

The Weaselette, maybe. Potter's father's will probably stipulated he could change back as early as eighteen if he married a pureblood. That would be normal. 

Potter didn't know that the Dark Lord had broken the Malfoy line. There'd be no changing back for Draco and no pureblood woman would want to be bound to a man who didn't want to touch her. Not even Pansy, for all that she loved him, given the way the pureblood contract prohibited affairs. 

"Malfoy? What are you thinking?" Potter's hand touched his shoulder, his arm stretched across the bed between them.

"You said I didn't have to answer any question I wasn't comfortable with."

"Yes. I meant that. But Malfoy—" Potter's voice had gotten higher and more tremulous.

"I don't want to talk about it." Draco closed his eyes but all he could see were flames and melting silver. 

The door opened and there was a shuffling of feet. Draco didn't open his eyes but it had to be Longbottom standing there. Who else smelled like mimbulus mimbletonia?

"Harry, I came for, you know. A suck." By the sound of Longbottom's voice, his head was turning, looking from Potter to Draco and back again. He paused, taking in the two of them. "Er, Harry? Is this a bad time?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and feedback are very deeply appreciated and keep the chapters coming!


	18. Chapter 18

Harry stared up at Neville, thinking _well, of course_. It seemed to be Neville's curse to be caught in the background of the most angstful moments of Harry's life. That year when Voldemort had been sending Harry nightmares, Neville had been across the room, watching with scared eyes. Neville had been there in the Hall of Mysteries, watching Sirius fall through the Veil. Neville had been there watching as Harry went out to die fighting Voldemort.

So of course Neville was here, eyes wide, watching Harry irrevocably screw things up with Malfoy. It was their thing, apparently. Any time there was a contender for Worst Day of Harry's Life, fate sent Neville along to watch it. Poor twat must be about as sick of it as Harry was.

Harry wasn't going to think about how this major yet confusing fight with Malfoy had suddenly shot to the top of the Worst Day charts. Malfoy wasn't that important to him. At all. And he'd prove it.

Harry kicked the sheets further down. "Get in the bed, Neville. Now."

Neville's eyes swiveled slowly from Malfoy back to Harry. "Er?"

Malfoy gave a vicious little snort. "Do it, Longbottom," he said without really pulling his head out of the pillow he'd stuck it in.

Neville looked very like he'd rather be about anywhere else, but a glare from Harry seemed to decide him that it was safer to do as he was told. He pulled off his shoes, one by one, and his socks, one by one, placing them in his shoes and then neatly putting his shoes under the bed. Then—after a glance that confirmed he had better keep going—he clambered onto the bed and climbed over Malfoy, apologizing profusely as he went.

Malfoy waved a hand in that aristocratic way of his, that was supposed to mean _not at all, dear fellow_ and really meant _shut up, Longbottom_.

Harry smacked the bed in between him and Malfoy, and Neville settled gingerly into the space indicated. "Trousers down," Harry said. "Can't do this with them up."

Malfoy rolled over toward them, face insolent. "And you can do it with them down? Competently? Gracefully, even? This I have to see."

Harry felt his face redden. "You liked it well enough when I did it to you."

Malfoy sneered. "The fact I got off is a testament to my being male, not to your skill, Potter. Sufficient friction applied in the generally correct area is bound to have an effect no matter how miserable the cocksucker is." He flicked a hand at Harry. "But go on. Get to it."

Harry's fists clenched. This was just like old times: he suddenly wanted to pound Malfoy's face, not his arse. But if that was the way Malfoy wanted things, then fine. Neville had just gotten his trousers open and Harry, irritated, yanked them down to thigh level in the front. Neville eeped a little as the waistband followed more slowly in the back, scraping across his bum, but lifted up obligingly enough for his pants to come down too. His cock sprang out, waving a little back and forth as it hardened.

"Nice," Malfoy said. He scooted closer and reached a hand out.

Harry smacked it away. "This is my job. I don't need your help." Still, as he lifted himself up, putting a knee on either side of Neville's thighs, he let his leg splay far enough to just touch Malfoy's.

Malfoy let it linger there, hot against his own leg, then leaned forward, smirking. "Already with the mistakes."

Harry grabbed Neville's cock but his attention was fixed on Malfoy. "What mistake? Put the cock—" he lifted it to his lips, "—in the mouth. That's how sucking cock works. It's not advanced arithromancy."

"Position, Potter. It's like riding a broom. If you don't start in the correct position, you're never going to do it well."

Harry sucked the tip of Neville's cock into his mouth, tongued it roughly, then pushed it out. "Oh, and you know all about 'riding brooms', I suppose."

"If you're using 'riding a broom' as a sophomoric metaphor for having sex with men," Malfoy reached out and adjusted Neville's pants, giving his bollocks a little space to breathe, "then yes, I do know all about it. Which only helps prove my point."

Neville's cock bobbed hopefully and Harry tried to yank his attention back to it. He was going to ignore Malfoy, he really was. He sucked Neville's cock in and licked it hard enough to get a nice panting grunt. Then he spat it out again and sat up. He couldn't do it--ignoring the wretched git was impossible. "What, Malfoy? What's your point exactly?"

Malfoy's fingers stroked down Neville's thigh. "That I can do this better than you, of course."

"Oh, that is complete shite! Watch this!" Harry flung himself back onto Neville's cock and jammed it into his mouth, all the way over his tongue straight to the back of his throat. 

Neville gasped and his hips jerked hard as he tried to thrust. "Oh, god, Harry, yes. Don't stop."

Harry bobbed, gagged, and pulled off. "You don't even really like men, Malfoy. I do. How can you possibly do this as well as someone who genuinely, naturally loves cock? You can't."

"What are you talking about?" Malfoy scooted over and cuddled up to Neville, just to be utterly infuriating. He ran a hand down Neville's abs and teased the dark curls around his cock. "You're exactly the same as me. Don't deny it—they did it to you too. Obviously."

Harry's gaze was riveted to those pale, clever fingers now stroking slow and firm across Neville's bollocks, drawing out little gasps and sighs. Harry's own bollocks throbbed, desperately wanting the same touch. "What the fuck are you talking about, Malfoy?"

A cultured voice came from the doorway. "Ah, I see you two are communicating as well as ever."

Harry's head whipped around to look. Zabini was standing there in the door, looking cool and collected.

Exasperation bubbled over, like a pot suddenly come to a boil. A boiling _watched_ pot, given how many people were in here, which just went to prove the old saying wrong. "What the fuck is this, the bloody Hogwarts Express? This is my bedroom, not an open train car!"

"And thank goodness for that." Zabini toed off his shoes and threw himself on the bed with nonchalant grace. "Draco owes me a suck and I much prefer the comfort of a bed."

Malfoy gave him a lazy smile. "Good timing, Blaise. I was just telling Potter here that he needed to see a true artist in action." He rolled off Neville—Neville looked a bit bereft—and over to Zabini. He undid Zabini's trousers and pulled them, together with his pants, entirely off. Then he settled himself in between Zabini's legs, preening a little under the indulgent smile he was given.

"See? As I was saying earlier, beginning in the correct position is crucial to doing this well." Malfoy look grew unbearably smug. "Poor Longbottom there has his legs trapped in his trousers. You can barely get to his bollocks, let alone anywhere else."

Zabini helpfully spread his legs a little more, as if he were the demonstration model.

Malfoy licked his lips and tilted his head, leaning in to press a kiss just below the head of Zabini's cock. His tongue poked out, a hint of pink, and he added a little lick. Zabini closed his eyes, his head falling back as his cock began to stiffen.

"See," Malfoy said as he picked up Zabini's full bollocks and rolled them gently back and forth, letting them tighten in his hand. "A good suck isn't just about going straight for the cock and cramming it in. Start a little slower. Pay attention to other places." He reached his other hand up, skimming it over Zabini's toned stomach and lightly muscled chest. He brushed a nipple and was rewarded with a gasp and a jerk. "Above _and_ below the waist."

Harry looked self-consciously down at Neville, who did seem a bit uncomfortable and confined. Still, Harry couldn't give Malfoy the satisfaction of knowing he was right. "You're fine, aren't you Neville?"

Neville nodded. "I'd be even more fine if you wanted to go back to, you know—" His cock waved forlornly, untouched.

Harry patted Nev's leg—yes, of course he'd get back to it--but he couldn't tear his eyes away from Malfoy. Apparently there'd been enough of the vaunted touches elsewhere that now the git could apply himself to Zabini's cock. It had just penetrated his mouth, dark and thick, and as Harry watched it slid slowly further in, stretching Malfoy's lips wide apart. A helpless groan tore out of Zabini's throat.

Fuck. Somewhere deep inside Harry there might have been a tendril of jealousy. Mostly, though, it was all white-hot desire. He wanted to see Malfoy's mouth get fucked hard and fast. He wanted to see Malfoy drool and squirm and try to take it.

Malfoy kept one eye on Harry, bright and wicked, and started sucking Zabini's cock in earnest. Zabini moaned with pleasure and his hands tightened on the sheets. Malfoy was up on his knees now and his own cock was visible between his legs, hard and leaking.

"Harry?" Neville sat up a little. His cock bobbed back and forth across his stomach like a wet metronome. "Could you, you know?"

"Yeah, absolutely, just a minute." He was going to go back to sucking Neville, he really was, but right now Harry couldn't go a single moment more without touching himself. He grabbed his cock and started stroking in time with each push of Zabini into Malfoy's mouth. Pleasure curled up his spine and his bollocks swung as he fucked hard into his hand.

There was something more unwinding inside Harry too, a tightness that had started when he'd first heard what had been done to Malfoy. It was the fear that Malfoy truly didn't like this, but honestly, seeing his eyes close in bliss as Zabini's cock fucked his face was an answer all in itself. Malfoy clearly loved it every bit as much as Harry did.

So what the hell had Malfoy's problem been earlier, when he rolled away and got all moody? What was it Zabini had said when he came in? It was important, too important to let pass.

Harry forced himself to let go of his cock and reached out and poked Zabini. "What did you mean about Malfoy thinking the same thing had been done to me? What was that about?"

Zabini's eyes opened slowly and reluctantly. He sank a hand into Malfoy's hair and held him in place. Malfoy moaned around the wet cock in his mouth and Harry filed that reaction away—Malfoy got off on that. Good to know.

"Potter. I see your sense of timing is every bit as expert as your ability to communicate." Zabini let Malfoy up, who pulled off with a gasp and a groan, then set immediately to sucking bollocks into his mouth. Malfoy's ears had perked up, though, and he seemed to be paying as much attention now to the question as the bollocks he was gently laving.

Harry settled back on his haunches. "Right, yeah, get your little jab in. That's fine but just tell me what you meant." He gave Neville's cock a little pump, more a promise of action than an actual hand job.

"I mean, Draco here, as you can see, quite loves cock. As do you."

"Yeah? So?" Another pump-pump of Neville's cock, half-heartedly.

"So, I have no doubt that Draco here has assumed that you like cock for the exact same reason he does." Zabini's eyes half-closed with pleasure as Malfoy licked his way from bollocks back up along his cock.

Oh. Comprehension started to dawn. "Malfoy thinks that thing they did to him—you know—he thinks they did it to me too?"

"Yes and furthermore, I know how Draco thinks." Zabini gave a fond hair tousle to Malfoy, who was licking long stripes up and down while he listened. "He thinks you're going to change back in a year or two. Marry some pureblood girl and have babies and look back on sucking cock with disgust."

"What are we talking about?" Neville asked forlornly. His hand drifted down to his own cock.

Harry knocked Nev's hand off his cock. That was Harry's job. He'd get to it, really he would. "What? I'm not going to ever, ever have anything like that done to me. I was born this way and I'm staying this way." 

He got back into position and seized Neville's cock, holding it still while he sucked the head into his mouth. Neville gasped and shook.

"Anyway," Harry said, having another thought and pulling off again nearly as soon as he had started, "Malfoy's the one who's going to change. Not me. He's the one who's going to get married to some pureblood girl and leave me behind."

"Ah." Zabini's hand smoothed carefully, lovingly through Malfoy's hair. "Draco? Care to say anything about that? Clear up any misunderstandings?"

Malfoy had completely stilled. His lower lip was caught between his teeth and his face had a tentative joy on it that made Harry's heart feel a little funny, in a good way. "You're not changing? You're staying this way, liking cock? Your whole life?"

"Of course." Harry had a sudden urge to lean over and kiss Malfoy. "What's the misunderstanding? What does Zabini mean about you telling me something?"

Malfoy hesitated, then grinned. "You want to ask a question? Beat me at a game. Winner gets to ask whatever they want, no holds barred. Loser has to answer."

Harry grinned back at him. "I'll win. I always win against you. What's the game?"

A wicked glint entered Malfoy's eyes. "Suck off. Let's see who's better at this. You on Longbottom, me on Blaise. Whoever gets their bloke to come first wins."

A host of objections flew into Harry's brain and he reached for one. "That's not fair! What if one of them just naturally comes quicker than the other? That's not about skill of the sucker. It's the bloke's fault."

"Excuses, excuses." Malfoy licked his lips, deliberate, provocative. "A true cocksucker can overcome that."

"Honestly, Harry," Neville said, breaking in, "if desperation counts for anything, I promise I'm ready to go." He muttered something else under his breath, something that might have been _'even Luna isn't this distracted'_.

Zabini shrugged. "Anything that gets the two of you back to what you're really supposed to be doing is fine by me."

"Well? Do you accept the terms?" Malfoy leaned over Zabini's cock like a racer waiting for the starting gun to fire.

A lick of excitement curled through Harry. "Fine. But I'm going to spank you as hard at this as I do at Quidditch." He took his position over Neville, in the same stance as Malfoy. "You're going down, Malfoy, and I mean it in every single way."

"Ooo, clever." Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"Both of you: shut it." Zabini wriggled his hips, getting comfortable. "Now. On your mark."

"Get set?" said Neville.

Harry heard Zabini's 'go!' through ears that were already popping from the stretch of his jaw as he took Neville's cock as far and deep and as fast as he could. Neville trembled, his back arching involuntarily, and his hands twisting in the sheets. Harry bobbed up and down once, trying to find the right rhythm, trying to ignore his own hard cock. Every movement, every gasp and grunt that Neville let out was only making it worse, though.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Malfoy. He wasn't bobbing up and down like Harry. Lazy git probably couldn't be bothered. Instead he had angled his head and taken Zabini's cock deep, so deep the tip had to be in Malfoy's throat. He was just holding it there, not moving. Well, how good could _that_ be?

Harry felt a burst of confidence. He was going to win this. He sucked harder, going up and down as fast as he could. Neville tensed every now and then—was that a good thing or a bad thing?—but Harry didn't look up at him.

He was too busy looking at Zabini. The fucker's head was tipped back, his neck taut, his mouth fallen open in pleasure. A steady stream of groans were pouring out and his legs were widening, making space for Malfoy to stroke his bollocks. Whatever Malfoy was doing with his impression of a cock-spitted statue, it was having some effect. What was it?

Oh fuck. A quick look at Malfoy showed his head might not be moving but his tongue sure was. He seemed to be caressing Zabini's cock with it, steadily, continuously, moving his tongue up and down its length without taking him out. Every time he swallowed, Zabini's groans grew deeper and more desperate. Harry groaned too, just from watching Malfoy's throat tighten around Zabini's cock, massaging the crown with each swallow. He wanted his own cock in there, wanted to see Malfoy's eyes water just like they were right now, but from the strain of trying to please Harry with all his skill.

Harry grabbed Neville's cock and started working it with his hand as well as his mouth. It slid smoothly across his palm now that it was wet and the increased friction soon had Neville grunting on each downstroke, whimpering on each withdrawal. Harry's cock was so thick and swollen that every movement dragged it across the sheet—fuck, if he wasn't careful, he was going to be the first one to come and how embarrassing would that be? It would probably even count as a win for Malfoy, because honestly, it was watching him hold that deepthroat that was pushing Harry over the edge. Malfoy didn't even have to touch him to bring him to the edge.

A little bitterness hit the back of his throat on the next pump. Pre-come—the taste of victory?

He shot a look over at Malfoy, whose hand seemed to have left the bollocks and moved farther back. Zabini's hips were tilted up and yes—Harry felt a surge of lust shoot through him as he realized Zabini was getting fucked by Malfoy's hand. As Harry watched, he jammed his arse down, grinding on unseen fingers, while his cock stayed firmly stuffed down Malfoy's ever-working throat.

"Harry, please," Neville whispered urgently, "I'm close, I promise, just don't stop."

It was too late though. As Harry watched, Zabini gave out a hoarse cry and came. Malfoy swallowed and sucked, moving now, taking the arrhythmic thrusts that Zabini couldn't seem to control. Come spilled over Malfoy's lips and he sucked it back in with eyes closed with pleasure. He pulled off at last and sat up, his own cock red and stiff between his legs.

Harry couldn't stand it. He shot Neville an apologetic look and scrambled over to Malfoy, pulling him down onto the bed and settling between his thighs. Malfoy's cock went into his mouth like it was made to be in there and Harry tongued it furiously. Malfoy's hands gripped Harry's head, tugging his hair and sending shocks of pleasure down his spine.

In the background he could hear Zabini sighing with satiated pleasure and Neville sighing with resignation but all Harry could focus on was the feel of Malfoy's cock in his mouth, the taste of his pre-come, and the sounds of pleasure that was spilling out of him. He groaned around Malfoy's cock, lost in his need for it, and he finally got a hand on himself too. Malfoy seemed to notice, seemed to like that Harry couldn't help but wank himself while sucking Malfoy off. His body stiffened, tense, and a whine came out of his throat, and then Malfoy was coming, pumping shot after shot into Harry's mouth.

That was all Harry needed. He tensed and groaned and came hard, spurting over his hand with Malfoy's cock still in his mouth. It was fucking fantastic is what it was. He sucked and licked until Malfoy started to go soft and pulled off finally with a wet plop. He collapsed to the bed, feeling boneless and sated and good right down to his soul.

He moved down a bit, just enough to rest his head on Malfoy's thigh, and enjoy the hand still carding through his hair.

Zabini reached for his wand and cast a general clean-up spell on all of them, then yawned. "Well, this was lovely. I think I'll be heading off before I fall asleep right here. Longbottom, you coming?"

Neville snorted. "Apparently not."

"I'll make it up to you, Nev," Harry mumbled.

Nev gave him a friendly look as he climbed over them. "It's okay, Harry, really. I think you might have found something else you need to focus on for a while."

Zabini stretched and pushed up off the bed, putting himself back together while Nev sat and put his shoes back on. "Have you ever considered telling Lovegood that you have nargles in your bollocks? She might focus a little better if you tell her that rubbing the magic stick is the way to make them come out."

"That's—well—that's—" Nev seemed to be turning it over in his head as he stood up.

That's so wrong and yet so practical, Harry thought as the two of them went out, shutting the door behind them. That was Slytherin advice in a nutshell for you.

"Potter?" A little tenseness had crept back into Malfoy's body. "So, I was thinking about what I wanted to ask. My question."

"Yeah? Ask away." Harry wrapped an arm over Malfoy's leg. He noticed Malfoy hadn't pushed him off or made any move to get away. He was going to take that for a positive sign. "Anything."

"I, er." Malfoy stopped, then seemed to brace himself. "I want to know why you've done this. All of it, from saving me in the dorm to wanting me in your bed. What is it that you want?"

Harry drew in a breath. He wasn't sure he really wanted to answer that. Not truthfully. At least not yet. What if it scared Malfoy away?

Start with the easy part, he decided. "Well, as for the saving you thing, come on—of course I didn't want you to die." Malfoy shifted a little underneath him and Harry pressed on. He'd promised the truth. "I don't mean just in the general way that I don't want anyone to die. I mean, yeah, I specifically felt horrified because it was you in there. I would have done anything to get you out." 

Harry kind of laughed. "I was completely panicked, you know. Especially when you kept telling me why all the ideas I had for the grand rescue were daft and would never work."

"You came up with something that did." Malfoy's hand smoothed down the back of Harry's head, coming to rest against the back of his neck, warm and maybe kind of tender. "And the rest of it?"

Harry turned his head into Malfoy's thigh. His skin was smooth and soft, with a fine down of golden hair. "I'm-possibly-maybe-really-very-interested-in-you. Romantically-I-mean-and-er-sex-and-all-that," speaking rapidly and all mumble-ish. His stomach tightened, waiting for Malfoy to laugh, to sneer, to push him away.

Instead, Malfoy's hand on the back of his neck squeezed with what felt like a sudden happy shock. His magic spiked too, crackling all across Harry for a moment with a tingling joy. 

"How interested?" Malfoy asked hesitantly, like he was a bit afraid of the answer. "Short term interest? A little fun this year interest?" He stopped then started again. "It's okay if you don't know."

Harry looked up at his other hand, resting on Malfoy's stomach. Silver words gleamed in the low light: _I must not tell lies_.

He was in love with Malfoy. That was the truth. Probably he had been for a very long time, but he'd hidden it under other names like 'hate' and 'obsession'. Now It was out in the light and Harry could see it for what it had always been.

"Potter?"

Malfoy was gazing at him open-mouthed, a little frown creasing his forehead. Oh, where to even begin?

“I do know this,” Harry answered. “You should really call me Harry." He reached for Malfoy’s shoulders and pulled him into a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and feedback are much loved and keep the chapters coming!


	19. Chapter 19

Draco slid his mouth a little farther down Potter’s cock and wondered again if he was dreaming.

He must be. There was no other way to account for how his life could have gone from ‘alone in the Slytherin dungeons, reduced to sucking off the eighth years in hopes of buying Father out of Azkaban’ to ‘lying in Potter’s bed in Gryffindor tower, listening to the Chosen One profess his desire for a Marked Malfoy.’

It must be a dream that, half an hour earlier, Potter had admitted he’d been wanking to fantasies of Draco since he was fourteen. It had to be a dream, because Potter had said he was _romantically_ interested, not just “I want to use your talented mouth” interested. Half the male Death Eaters in Britain had been interested in Draco for that, for fuck’s sake, no matter how they were keyed. No, this was _definitely_ a dream, because now Potter was tangling his hands in Draco’s hair and moaning filthy endearments.

“Christ, Malfoy. So fucking good.” Potter was beginning to writhe, bucking forward against Draco’s chin as Draco knelt on the bed and sucked him deeper. “Want you so much, Malfoy. Fuck, oh fuck-- _Draco_.”

Potter using Draco’s first name? Any minute now, Draco would wake up and find himself alone in his own bed in the dungeons, his heart aching and his sheets sticky with cooling spunk.

“Draco, fuck, gonna come--”

Draco gripped Potter’s thighs. Whatever Potter did while he was off fighting the Dark Lord, apparently it had involved developing really excellent quadriceps. Draco tightened his fingers and then Potter was shooting off in his mouth, and his spunk was mossy and musky and _Harry Potter_ , and he clutched Draco’s head as he came. Potter was shaking, knees literally trembling on either side of Draco’s head. Draco pulled off, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. Potter reached up and pulled Draco down on top of him, kissing him and wrapping his arms around Draco’s shoulders and laughing softly in his ear, sounding thoroughly wrecked and… happy.

Draco buried his nose beneath the collar of Potter’s half-open school shirt and breathed in the scent of his skin. Potter smelled the way he always did, like school soap and quidditch leathers and windy flying, and now he also smelled of sex. Sex with Draco. Draco ducked his head, looking down the length of Potter’s body, his bronze skin, the dark hairs on his arms and legs, the thatch of dark hair at the base of his spent cock, which even in its postorgasmic state was still pretty fucking fat. And wet with Draco’s spit.

Potter slid his fingers down over Draco’s temple, cupping his cheek, his hand lingering there in what could only be called a caress. Draco tensed. Maybe now they’d reached the part of the dream where Potter chucked him out of bed and the whole of Gryffindor tower popped out from behind a curtain to jeer at him.

“That was bloody fantastic,” Potter said, in the same soft, wrecked voice. He nosed a kiss in the general vicinity of Draco’s ear. “So you beat me at something after all.” Potter sucked Draco’s earlobe into his mouth, sending a flutter of arousal through Draco so delicate it almost hurt. “But maybe you’ll agree to a rematch,” Potter went on. “I want to make you feel that good, too. Tell me what to do for you and I’ll do it, yeah?”

Or maybe Draco really was awake, because dream Harry had never been this nice to him.

“You want me to suck you again, Malfoy? Or…”

Draco waited for the snarky follow up. _Or have you come to your senses and realized I’d rather suck a grindylow?_ But Potter didn’t finish his sentence. Draco rolled off of him and dared a glance at the git’s face. Potter was still wearing that same sex-drunk expression, but now he also seemed to have acquired a ridiculous, fond look in his eyes. A look that was making Draco’s heart do things it really had no business doing.

All right, suppose this _was_ really happening. Draco’s mind began to race. Where was the hitch? He tried to remember what else Potter had said before Draco had started sucking him off but it was all jumbled together in his memory now.

“Knut for your thoughts?” Potter inched closer, throwing one of his legs over Draco’s.

“A single knut? Cheapskate. What do you take me for?”

“Hmmm,” Potter hummed into his ear. “Anything I can get, I think. That’s what I’ll take.”

“Sappy git,” Draco said, even as his heart stuttered, _oh god yes this please._

Potter’s hand slid between their bodies, sliding all the way inside Draco’s unbuttoned trousers. “You said the best blow jobs are done with trousers off, Malfoy. Why don’t you take yours off and let me try again?”

Draco swallowed as his cock surged embarrassingly in Potter’s grasp. Potter released him and tugged at the waistband of Draco’s trousers. Draco wriggled out of them, feeling all the hairs on his legs stand up in a shiver at the cool of the room. Or maybe it was the heat of Potter’s bare leg flung over his again, sliding up and down as Potter’s warm hand began stroking him.

“Now tell me what you like,” Potter said, his voice low. A hint of teasing, but not in a bad way, Draco realized. Potter wasn’t asking so he could use the information against Draco later. He was asking because he was a sodding Gryffindor, and that was the ridiculous, untactical, advantageless, impulsive, childish way they did everything.

Potter blinked at him, waiting. His eyes without his glasses looked large and unfocused, oddly vulnerable.

Draco didn’t know how to answer. What did he like? He liked not being spat on. He liked not being tortured, or watching other people be tortured in front of him. He liked knowing his mother was safe now. He liked not having to get on his knees for every male Death Eater who passed through Malfoy Manor.

“Hey, Malfoy. You okay?”

“I’m thinking, you git, how to answer in such a way that even a Gryffindor will understand.”

Potter rolled his eyes, not realizing that Draco wasn’t actually kidding. But the truth was, he’d never be able to explain about what he’d done during the war. Even if he somehow managed to get the words out, Potter would never understand.

Draco gave himself a little internal shake. Potter was asking for sexual instruction, not a laundry list of Draco’s personal problems. Draco closed his eyes and wrapped a hand around himself, his fingers bumping up against Potter’s, who was still holding his cock, which had begun to flag.

What did he like, sexually? He liked cock, obviously. He thought back to when he'd sucked Flint off to win his vote. It had made Draco so hard he'd wanted to get off right then, but for all that, he wasn't sure he'd actually _liked_ the experience, not the way a Gryffindor would use the word. Sucking off the other Slytherins was too mixed up with shame and desperation. Potter, sodding earnest Gryffindor that he was, was asking something else. Well, what did Draco like, then? He liked the handjobs he’d had before the war, when he and Blaise used to fool around--not for favors but because it felt nice. And he liked wanking, of course. Maybe he liked that most of all, because those were the moments when he knew he was safe, with the curtains spelled around his bed and the rest of the world shut out for a little while. He liked fantasizing about Potter while he did it, and hadn’t Potter just confessed that he himself had been fantasizing about Draco since fourth year? He could tell Potter that, maybe.

“When I wank,” he started.

“I’m listening.” The words came in a soft huff of breath at Draco’s ear.

Draco closed his eyes. He liked sliding a finger inside himself while he wanked, liked imagining the finger was a cock. Okay, Potter’s cock. Did he dare admit that now?

And then Potter was rolling away from Draco and raising himself up on one elbow. The fond look on his face had turned into a frown.

“Is this about that key thing?” Potter asked.

“What?”

“I mean, you want to be here, right? You do like being with me?”

“More than you could ever know.” The words just popped out of Draco’s mouth all on their own. Merlin, was Gryffindor behavior contagious? Draco hoped to hell not; if so, he’d be dead within the week.

But Potter ploughed on, not even realizing what Draco had just let slip. “I mean, Blaise told me what your parents did to you, that they keyed you to only like blokes when you came to Hogwarts. Nobody did that to me, Malfoy. I guess I was born this way, and I’m good with it. But if you don’t really like blokes… I mean, if you don’t _want_ to like them, I don’t want to do this with you.” Potter sat all the way up, running a hand through his hair in agitation. “I spent the first half of my life with people who didn’t really want me, people who were made to be with me because something terrible would happen to them if they didn’t. And I can’t--” he shook his head.  

Draco had no idea what Potter was on about. What people who didn’t want him? Potter had been the darling of the Wizarding World his entire life. Still was.

“You daft idiot,” Draco said. “I just told you I want to be here. You want me to show you how much?” He reached for Potter’s hip to pull him back down on the mattress, but Potter batted his hand away.

“I’m just saying.” Potter was still unsettled. “If you’re planning to get that key thing and change back to liking girls at the end of the year, you should tell me now.”

Draco looked at Potter. Stupid beautiful idiotic Gryffindor Harry Potter, who apparently believed with all his heart and soul that truth was a thing you went around telling people. And yet, when Potter looked at him like that, his face so open and earnest, Draco wanted to believe it too.

 _My key is gone. The Dark Lord destroyed it._ The words were right there, on the tip of his tongue and in the pit of his stomach, where they’d been lodged ever since that terrible day at the Manor.

He didn’t want to lie to Potter. But he couldn’t speak the words; they were too shameful.

“I don’t know what I’d do if I had the key, because I don’t have it,” Draco said at last, trying to word it truthfully enough that if Potter’s sneakoscope were still somewhere about, it wouldn’t start whistling. Potter stuck his hand in his hair again, and this time Draco caught a glimpse of the scarred words there: _I must not tell lies._ What a hell of a thing to have etched into your skin for all time. Draco involuntarily touched his forearm through his shirtsleeve. Of course, there were worse things to have burned into you.

“Well, where is it?” Potter asked, with that same doggedness that had driven Draco spare all through sixth year

“The last time I saw the key was at the Manor,” Draco said. “But please, Harry, no more questions about that.”

To Draco’s astonishment, a broad grin broke out across Potter’s face. Had the git gone completely mad? Well, that would explain the recent turn their relationship seemed to have taken.

“You called me Harry.” Potter’s eyes were shining.

Fuck, he had, hadn’t he? “I’m terribly sorry, Potter,” Draco said, hunching in on himself as he tried to process Potter’s latest inexplicable reaction. “I was under the impression, based on your barrage of personal questions, that we’d got onto a first name basis. Please pardon my inexcusable breach of etiquette.” At least he’d got Potter off the subject of the key, though.

“Don’t be a tosser.” Harry gave Draco a gentle shove with his foot. “I asked you to call me Harry earlier, but you didn’t, and I thought--but now you have.” He dropped down onto his stomach on the bed, bringing his face close to Draco’s. “Don’t call me Potter anymore,” he said softly. “It feels too much like the war. And, you know. Us. Before.” He reached out and touched Draco’s chest. Draco still had his shirt on, but as Potter drew his fingers across the cotton and then back again, moving lower as he did, Draco realized Harry was tracing his Sectum Sempra scars. “I want to be Harry to you now,” Potter-- _Harry_ said. “Not Potter.”

Draco felt his cheeks heat. He dropped his eyes, still afraid Potter would laugh at him. Well, Potter probably would. But maybe Harry wouldn’t.

“Harry,” Draco said, so hesitantly his voice cracked on the second syllable.

“Yeah.”

“You could… call me by my first name too.”

“Draco.” Potter spoke slowly, trying it out. Unaware perhaps, that he’d said it earlier when Draco’d been sucking him off. He looked up then, his face so close that Draco could feel the warmth of his breath, see the faint ridges of the scar on his forehead and the flecks of hazel in his green eyes. “Draco,” he said again, his lips lingering on the _o_ and then slowly curving into a grin. “I’m going to kiss you, Draco.”

His lips were full and soft, just as Draco remembered from their near-drowning adventure. The touch was like Lumos; Harry kissed him and Draco lit up inside. Draco parted his lips, tasting Harry’s mouth, his tongue, feeling the ridges of his teeth. Harry’s stubble scraped against his jaw and the roughness of it set off another Lumos inside Draco. Harry’s arm snaked around his waist, pulling him close, and Draco copied him, pressing himself into Harry as they held each other. He was so hungry for this. He was starving. He needed more. Harry’s hands found Draco’s arse and gripped him, Harry’s hands so warm against Draco’s bare skin. Harry was making little grunts of pleasure as he rubbed up against Draco, his cock solid and warm against Draco’s own. Draco heard himself moan.

“You were going to tell me,” Harry said, his voice low, “how I should get you off. You want me to suck you?”

Draco tensed. He didn’t want Harry to do that now. Here at Hogwarts sucks were something exchanged for necessary favors, and all last year at the Manor sucks had been the price he’d had to pay for avoiding pain, injury and the ever-present threat of death.

But Potter--no, _Harry_ \--didn’t know any of that. He was kissing Draco’s jaw, his earlobe, his ear. He slid his hand up Draco’s bare thigh, finding his erection beneath his shirttails. He wrapped his hand around Draco’s cock and began a soft, teasing pull.

“You want to teach me how to suck you off?” Harry asked again.

The words went straight to his cock, but Draco shook his head. “Something else. I want--”

But he didn’t know what he wanted, just that he wanted it to be different with Harry.

Harry was stroking Draco’s cock more firmly now. Draco couldn’t help it; he bucked forward into that warm hand. “You started to say what you do when you wank,” Harry said. “Tell me now?”

“Merlin. Is that what you Gryffindors do, sit around telling each other how you toss off?”

“Right now I’m asking a Slytherin.” Harry’s hand slid down to the base of Draco’s cock and cupped his balls, rolling them gently over his palm.

“Finger me.” The words popped out of Draco’s mouth before he could stop them.

 _Fuck._ Had he actually just told Harry Potter to put a finger up his arse? Draco braced himself, waiting for the disgusted reply.

But all Harry said was, “Yeah?” He let go of Draco’s balls and then the tips of his fingers were brushing lightly over Draco’s taint, pressing back between his arse cheeks.

Potter was actually going to do it. Maybe he even thought it was hot. His fingers nuzzled further back, and then one of them was pressing against the bud of Draco’s anus. Pressing rather hard. Draco felt a burst of fear arc through him.

“Wait,” he blurted. “You need to cast a _Lubrico_.”

“A what?” Harry stopped moving his hand.

“A lube spell, you prat. Here--” Draco shut his eyes, concentrating. He could barely cast wandlessly, but if Potter didn’t even know what the spell was, a wandless cast would do well enough, not to mention look impressive.

“Merlin, my fingers!”

“Are slippery. Yes, that’s the meaning of the word ‘lube,’ in case you didn’t know. Don’t tell me the whole of Gryffindor tower wanks dry.”

“Fuck.” Harry sounded more than a little awed, and wasn’t that a beautiful thing? He was rubbing his fingers together, his knuckles jostling the insides of Draco’s arse cheeks. “God, Malfoy. Just--” he broke off, shifting around on the bed. “Draco. Raise your knee, yeah? It’s--it’s kind of tight.”

 _Of course it’s tight, it’s an arsehole, you prat._ Draco was all ready to say the words in his most supercilious tone of voice. But when he opened his mouth, what came out instead was a… well, a whimper. Because Potter was stroking rather than pushing now, just gently stroking with his finger, and it was soft and slippery and sent electrical pulses up Draco’s spine in a way that never happened when Draco fingered himself. He drew up his knee as Harry had asked, and then, still nervous, he gripped Harry’s forearm.

Harry stopped moving, looking questioningly at Draco.

Draco closed his eyes. “It’s okay. It feels… nice.” In fact it felt a hell of a lot better than ‘nice,” but Draco wasn’t going to admit that just now.

“Push my hand,” Harry mumbled.

“What?”

“Show me. I don’t want to hurt you. Push my hand, I mean my finger, inside you, yeah?”

“Fuck. Okay. Yeah.” Harry’s request seemed to have transfigured Draco’s entire body into one giant erection. He needed this. He needed to be fucked by Harry’s finger, he needed to bring himself off, and he needed these things _now_. He rolled onto his back and let his legs fall open. Wrapping a hand around his cock, he used his other hand to move Harry’s finger a few inches from his hole. Harry was leaning over him now, looking down at him, so Draco shut his eyes. A pillow over his face would have been better because then Potter--Harry--wouldn’t see how badly he was blushing. But the thought only flickered briefly through his mind, driven out by the need that had set every cell of his body alight.  

He cast a second _Lubrico_ on his own hand and began wanking himself, noting with a flash of pride that Potter swore appreciatively at the wandless spell. Eyes closed, Draco concentrated on the feel of his cock in his hand and tried to ground himself. He stripped his foreskin back, played a finger over the sensitive head, then slid the sheath up again and began wanking in earnest. In the back of his head, a distant alarm began to sound, a panicked voice crying, _Stop_ , _Potter is watching you_. But it was too late to pay that voice any mind. Instead he squeezed Harry’s hand, urging it closer, bringing the pad right up to the wrinkled furl of his most sensitive place. He stroked himself slowly, breathed slowly, his body thrumming with fear and arousal. “Okay,” he managed, and holding Harry’s hand, he guided the tip of Harry’s finger inside him.

“Oh,” Harry breathed. Draco felt his hole squeeze closed around Harry’s finger, felt the solidity, the pressure. He felt the stillness. Harry didn’t move, and once Draco was sure he wouldn’t, he turned his attention back to his hand on his cock, the sliding pleasure coiling in his groin with every stroke.

“Fuck, Malfoy. _Draco_. Fuck. Wank yourself.” Harry’s voice seemed very far above him, yet Draco felt it vibrate through his body. “This is so fucking hot, oh God.”

“A little more now,” Draco panted, giving Harry’s hand another squeeze, and slowly, Harry’s finger slid deeper inside him. The sensation of that one finger was so much--Draco’s whole body was tingling with it, his balls were drawing up, caught in the deep delicious tension between his hand on his cock and Harry’s finger in his hole.

“Fuck, Draco.” Harry’s voice sounded so awestruck that Draco opened his eyes before he could stop himself.

Harry was gazing down at him with his mouth half open, his eyes soft. And Draco didn’t mean to, but when their eyes met, his orgasm hit.

He was coming with Harry’s finger inside him. With Harry’s eyes on him while he wanked. Draco shut his eyes and turned his head away but it was too late; he pulsed over his hand, his hole spasming around Harry’s finger. “Fuck, yeah,” he heard Harry say, and then Harry’s other hand was on Draco’s face, cupping his cheek as Draco’s body tightened, shuddered, released.

He shook through the end of his climax, giving his cock a final come-slick stroke for that last spurt, and fell back on the bed. He felt Harry’s finger ease out of him, and Harry’s other hand on his forehead, pushing Draco’s sweaty hair back from his closed eyes.

Salazar Fucking Slytherin on a stick, he’d just wanked for Harry Potter.

Of course he had. Only Harry Potter could do such a thing to him. But not even in Draco’s dreams had he imagined what happened next, which was Harry lying down beside him and whispering in his ear that it was bloody amazing. That Draco was so hot, that it was fucking brilliant. He’d never dreamed that Harry would wrap him up in his arms after, grinding their spent pricks together in Draco’s come, and kiss him until they were both breathless. He hadn’t ever dreamed that he’d fall asleep afterwards in Harry’s arms.

#

Draco woke face-down with something heavy on top of him. Something heavy and warm and breathing deeply. It was like being pleasantly smothered by the world’s most loving blanket, except perhaps for the hard cock nestled between Draco’s arse cheeks, which wasn’t a feature of any blanket he’d ever owned. Unfortunately.

The sun was streaming into the cozy bedroom, and the air still smelled of sex. Draco rubbed his head back and forth on Potter's pillow--no, on Harry’s pillow--waves of disbelief rolling inside him. Harry Potter wanted him! Had been wanking over Draco since fourth year! Wanted Draco in his bed!

 _Harry Potter wants Draco Malfoy_. Draco mouthed it to himself, still unable to believe it. Harry had said it with words, he’d said it with actions, he’d said it with the tip of his finger, the one that had been inside Draco, drawing the shape of a heart on Draco’s back before they fell asleep.

Draco tried out his own truth, mouthing it into the pillow instead of Harry’s ear. _I’m dating Harry Potter_. That made him stop and feel a little extra odd, extra anxious. Was he allowed to tell people they were shagging, no cocksucking contracts involved? And was he really going to call Potter Harry now? Was he going to call him that in public? Harry hadn’t said that Draco could do that. Was public Harry-ing automatically included in this declaration of mutual shagging interest? But it was more than that, because Harry had said “romantically.” Unless Gryffindors had some special definition for the word. They probably fucking did. If you were a Gryffindor, “interested romantically” probably meant ‘sweet talk the person into bed with you and tell them you’ve been wanking about them since fourth year and then after you’ve shagged them, kick them out of bed and never speak to them again.’

Except that didn’t sound very Gryffindor. Or very Harry. Besides, Harry was currently lying on top of Draco, which was pretty much the opposite of kicking him out of bed. Draco gave an experimental wiggle, but Harry didn’t budge. Never mind getting kicked out, Draco couldn’t leave if he wanted to.

He didn’t want to. Much as Draco hated to admit it, Harry had probably meant everything he said, because he was an impulsive, bleeding-heart, truth-telling Gryffindor.

Which could only mean one thing: once again, Harry Potter had gotten Draco Malfoy into a shitload of trouble that Draco would never have found on his own.

The only difference was that this time, Draco couldn’t be happier.

_Bang!_

A sound like an enormous balloon being burst next to Draco’s head caused him to startle so violently that Harry rolled right off him. Draco kicked frantically at the covers, scrabbling for his wand. But it was only an elf, doing that fucking house elf Apparition that ever since the war scared the hell out of Draco each time it happened. Of course, since the war a lot of things frightened him that hadn’t used to. Towers. Dueling practice. Malfoy Manor. Snakes.

“Draco Malfoy is receiving a guest in the Fettucine Garden,” the elf announced, her tiny face bright.

“No, Draco Malfoy is lying in bed after being rudely awakened, wondering what you’re on about.”

The elf’s eyes grew wide and her ears drooped down until they touched her shoulders. Draco swore at himself. If Potter woke up and caught him being rude to this house elf, there’d be hell to pay.

“I’m sorry, ah, Widley,” he said, hoping he remembered the elf’s name correctly. He must have done, because her ears perked up again. “You’re saying someone’s here to see me?”

“Sir! There is an aura who is wishing to see you! He sends for you to come!”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “An Auror, you mean?” He very much doubted there was a mystic emanation awaiting his presence in the kitchen garden. Then amusement dropped away and he bit his lip. It wasn’t time yet for a parole check-in. Not that Dawlish always stuck to the schedule—he liked to drop in, keep Draco off-balance, make him feel perpetually watched.   

"Yes, sir, and Widley is doing the notifications for anyone sharing a room with Harry Potter, sir!"

"Thank you, Widley. I'll... I'll be right down."

The tiny elf nodded and with another loud bang, disappeared.

Draco glanced over at Harry, who was now snoring gently at the ceiling. How was it possible that anyone could sleep through the deafening crack of house-elf apparition? On the other hand, if anyone could, of course it was Potter. Draco had been watching him at breakfast in the Great Hall for six years, and he knew what Potter was like in the mornings. The gorgeous git could barely butter a piece of toast before 8:00. If the Dark Lord had scheduled their duel-to-the-death for sunrise, Voldemort would definitely have won hands down.

Draco gave an involuntary shudder. He was here now, he was safe. If only he could stay in this tiny sunlit room forever, with Harry beside him. Instead he Scourgified himself, found his trousers and shirt, and put them on. They were badly wrinkled, but he didn’t know any household ironing spells and he didn’t want to try to summon Widley back. He shrugged into his robes and then, on impulse, knelt on the bed and kissed Harry gently on the temple. He wouldn’t have had the courage to do it if he’d thought Harry might awaken.

Harry didn’t wake. Draco kissed him once more, then put on his shoes and headed for the garden.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an extra long chapter to make up for the very long posting hiatus. Thanks to everyone for their patience! My fantastic writer friend BasiliskCur has jumped in to help, so it's back on track. The next chapter will be posted Saturday, May 26, and we'll be updating regularly all summer. You can subscribe (by clicking the "subscribe" button at the top right of the AO3 screen) to be notified when future chapters post.
> 
> As always, comments, kudos and recs keep us going and are *deeply* appreciated!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to Maesterchill for the beta!

Even the knowledge that Dawlish was waiting for him couldn’t dampen Draco’s happiness as he hurried through the castle toward the gardens. It bubbled through him, making him feel light and airy and a million other sappy things he’d rather die than say out loud. Especially to Pansy. She’d laugh her non-existent bollocks off if she knew how over-the-moon lovey-dovey he was feeling right now. Worse, once she’d stopped laughing, she’d give him a hug and probably get a little teary about how all through the war she’d told him to hang on, that everything would get better, and it had. She’d probably even say something about how he deserved Potter, which was completely untrue, and how Potter was lucky to have him, which was even more untrue. But she’d say it with such conviction that he’d almost believe it for a moment or two, and it would feel real, like this might last. That thought alone made him ache a little inside but in a good way, like the way it felt after a dose of Skele-Gro—oh so painful but so satisfying too, when the broken bits beneath your skin finally began to mend.

Draco laughed out loud as he bounded down the final steps and out the door that led to the garden. Was he really comparing Harry to something that quite literally gave you a boner? He was never, ever going to confess that one and his sex drive could stay the hell away from his poetry center, thank you very much. If there was going to be any admitting of regard, then it would be dignified and proper and not sound like something he read in the trashy Veela romances that he absolutely, positively never snuck out of Pansy’s trunk and read under the covers late at night in the Slytherin dorm.

The kitchen garden appeared empty as Draco approached. Maybe Dawlish was meeting with McGonagall first? Typical, to have Draco hauled out of bed, then make him wait. He shrugged to himself. He didn’t really mind. Working here was supposed to be a humiliation, a literal rub-your-face-in-the-mud comedown. Instead it had become his greatest comfort, a green, safe, sunny space all his own.

Today the fettucini trees were quivering in the early morning light, eager for the sun, noodles still damp with the morning dew. Long pale pasta fingers reached for him as he passed into the grove, trailing over his shoulder with a sticky touch. Eleven-year-old him would have been disgusted but post-war Draco had rather come to like it. Plants didn’t shy away from him like his dormmates did. They didn’t know all the ways he had failed and all the things he had done wrong. They just quivered toward him, turned their flowers up to be admired, appreciated the water he brought and the way he cleared away the pests.

He gently pulled the strands loose and spun them into neat bundles, like little plaits, moving down the grove as he worked. Their Muggle Studies professor—a political appointee chosen for being both a pureblood and a muggle enthusiast—had devoted a lesson to the importance of pasta in the Muggle World. Many of them even worshipped a deity known as the ‘Flying Spaghetti Monster,’ apparently, and prayed to be ‘Touched By His Noodly Appendage.’ For some reason, that had made Granger laugh so hard she’d had to stuff her fist in her mouth. Draco had badly wanted to ask her why it was so funny. It didn’t seem all that odd compared to other things that Muggles did, like riding around in Underground Tubes and Enjoying Eurovision. 

Maybe if Harry really did want him, then Draco would be able to sit with Granger and ask her? It was safe now. He didn’t have to worry about word getting back to Father about who he was associating with. He didn’t have to worry what Father would do to him when Granger took top marks in their classes. 

Shame followed fast on the heels of those thoughts. How could he possibly be considering the upsides of Father being in Azkaban? That was a cruel and unworthy thing to think. Draco moved on quickly to the meatball bushes, accidentally tearing the last pasta bundle in his hurry. He crouched down by the bushes, trying to focus on them and not the voice in his head that said how disgusted Father would be to see him out here toiling in the soil like a garden elf. 

No. Instead he was going to focus on the way the meatballs were plumping up nicely. There’d be a good crop ready soon. The marinara mosses, on the other hand, he realized as he stood up and made his way over to them, were still a little watery. Maybe more of that onion and garlic mash they liked so much? Or maybe some opera? They’d perked up nicely when he’d sung a little _Aida_ to them. He could go to the library and find a Pagliacci score or two, something rousing and thoroughly Italian— 

A dry cough brought Draco back to himself. Dawlish was standing at the edge of the grove, looking terrifyingly formal in his Auror robes. He looked like Judgement itself standing there and Draco half-expected him to say there’d been a mistake, that Draco actually had been sentenced to Azkaban, that he was here to take Draco away, to pull out a pair of magic-dampening cuffs and Apparate them directly into a dark cell with his own personal Dementor waiting for him even though you couldn’t Apparate directly into Azkaban and supposedly they didn’t have Dementors there anymore, which was only thanks to Harry anyway. 

Harry. Harry wouldn’t let them drag him away. Draco drew a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Occlumency was no help—he’d never really mastered it. It was too stained with thoughts of Aunt Bella and her terrifying eyes, with the way she’d hissed excitedly through bared teeth each time he’d failed to keep her out. She’d never uncovered his secret, shameful desire for Potter at least. She would have been delighted to announce that at dinner, just like she’d announced how Draco dreamed of cock, that he spilled helplessly at night to thoughts of being rogered like a trollop. That had started it, the men, the need for protection from them— 

Draco drew a deep breath. The fresh green scent of the kitchen garden steadied him better than any magic. He forced his heart rate to slow down to something approaching normal. 

Dawlish’s eyes were glinting. He might not know the content of Draco’s thoughts, but he could feel the fear, no doubt, and he liked it. There was no need to rush through this portion of the meeting, his easy posture said.

“Sir,” Draco said finally when he’d mastered himself enough to trust his voice. “I was informed you wished to see me.” He didn’t point out, of course, that this wasn’t the scheduled time for a probation check. Dawlish could check on him whenever he liked, Draco supposed. _But not in Harry’s bed,_ whispered a stubborn voice. Dawlish might be able to call him away from Harry, but he’d never have the nerve to invade the Saviour’s bedroom.

Dawlish’s gaze swept restlessly over the garden, presumably searching for anything out of order he could bring Draco to task for. His nose crinkled and for one absurd moment Draco wanted to apologize for caring for the garden so well. If he’d known Dawlish wanted to vent his spleen on someone today, he could have had a mistake prepared. He could have had an unweeded patch, a desiccated fern, or a dying tree.

Would he, though? Draco looked down at his dirt-covered shoes rather than looking at his beautiful garden. A true Slytherin would have torn up any number of plants to satisfy someone in power but he wasn’t sure he could have brought himself to do that. Which one would he have chosen? Not that little maidenhair fern over there or that bright bank of poppies or even that little patch of wild strawberries which had snuck in a few weeks ago. They weren’t supposed to be here but he hadn’t the heart to make them leave and anyway, he’d read some techniques for taming feral berries that he’d really been hoping to try—

Dawlish’s frown, however, had settled on a kitchen elf who had come to pick up the morning carrots. Draco bit his lip, even more uncertain now. What did Dawlish want, if not to simply yell at Draco? He followed Dawlish meekly as the Auror prowled through the garden.  Dawlish usually called Draco to the headmistress’s office for his probation check-ins. Dawlish liked the trappings of power there. He liked sitting in the headmistress’s chair, filled with the righteous feeling of being on the right side of the desk and the right side of the law. So why had he called Draco to the garden today?

Then again, what did Draco really understand about why anybody did anything? He’d always thought McGonagall allowed Dawlish to use her office because she approved of that extra level of intimidation, that she wanted Draco to feel small and scared. She’d surprised him completely with her reaction to the flooding of the Slytherin dorms, though, hadn’t she? She hadn’t blamed it on the Slytherins in general or Draco in particular. She’d made sure the Slytherins were comfortably re-housed. Father would never have believed they might be fairly treated by a Gryffindor. Then again, the list of things Father had been wrong about was ever-growing, wasn’t it? Maybe Draco had been wrong about Dawlish too. 

Draco trailed after Dawlish as they passed through the Sculpture Garden—neatly raked and polished—the Greater and Lesser Vegetables—alphabetically arranged from Aubergine to Watercress—and the Small Orchard—and felt himself growing ever more slightly comfortable. Dawlish frowned at each kitchen elf he saw but they weren’t doing Draco’s work for him. They were just coming to get what he had grown and there was plenty of that. He really had been doing a passably good job, hadn’t he? It was all healthy and green and maybe he could feel a little content with himself? Maybe Dawlish would even offer up a word or two of praise? 

Finally Dawlish paused before the gate to the one part of the garden they hadn’t seen. He looked inside. “No elves in there?”

Draco shook his head, a little confused but not worried. “Not there. It’s the Flesh-Eaters’ Garden. There’s nothing for the kitchen in there.” Still, Draco felt his muscles tensing again as Dawlish peered at the untidy rows within the walled space. Maybe he’d been right the first time and Dawlish did want to catch him out? “Professor Sprout said I should only come in this space with her. I’m not supposed to work in there alone.”

“She doesn’t trust you around dangerous plants?” Dawlish looked pleased. 

Actually, Professor Sprout had smiled kindly and said she didn’t want Draco to get hurt, so best they did this part together, right love? Draco remembered it distinctly. It had been the first kind smile he’d gotten since returning to Hogwarts and it had, horrifically, made his eyes well up with tears. Sprout had pretended not to notice, which had earned her whatever portion of Draco’s undying love the smile hadn’t already earned. “There’s nothing for the kitchen in there, sir. It’s really not part of my—”

Dawlish was already moving down the path, though. Draco sucked up his nerve and followed him. He’d grown up with a healthy respect for how dangerous plants could be—the Manor Gardens were good for that—and stayed to the direct center of the path. To the right, the Venus Fly Traps were opening in the sun, turning up their toothed green mouths to the sky. Those weren’t anything to worry about. They were too small to do any harm to a wizard. The Mercury Fly Traps on the other side weren’t dangerous either, if a little more annoying. They were buzzing already, bright silver traps darting back and forth, stems aquiver as they snatched gnats out of the air. 

It was the next patch that made him nervous as he hurried past, trying not to tread too close behind Dawlish. These were Jupiter Fly Traps and they loomed over the pathway, as enormous as the name implied. They liked larger game and Draco turned slightly, avoiding the green hairs that protruded from an uncomfortably close variegated maw. Another one just past it must have already fed today, some sad squirrel or something—a pulsating red spot glowed a little off-center half-way down it, marking the spot where the corpse was being digested.

Dawlish stopped, fortunately, at a small stone table in the middle of the garden. The back half was even more unnerving than the front. The whole back wall were triffids, triffids, with their orangey tubular stems as large as a man, which was also their preferred prey, apparently. There was also something equally large and truly weird with waving tendrils in the corner called Audrey, and as for the innocuous-looking apple trees—well, those were the creepiest of all, as far as he was concerned. 

Draco hurried to sit, pulling his eyes from the back garden and taking the stone seat Dawlish pointed to, across from him. He rested his hands on the table, then pulled them off, then put them back on. He looked acutely nervous, he knew, but who cared? Dawlish probably liked it anyway.

Dawlish, however, was looking around the garden. “No elves,” he said with satisfaction, and smiled. “Didn’t want any prying eyes for this.” He reached into his robes.

Draco tensed. He’d learned to be wary of men who wanted to take him to places where no one else could see what they did to him. Dawlish had never seemed that type and a Flesh-Eaters’ Garden hardly seemed a good ambiance for that kind of thing but—

Dawlish pulled out a tiny stone pensieve. With a tap of his wand, it expanded to normal size, water sloshing slightly inside, spilling out drops of water which darkened the stone table where they landed.   His smile was turning toothy and Draco was feeling worse and worse about this with every passing moment. 

“Sir?” Draco gripped the edge of the stone seat with his hands, appreciating the way the rough edge bit into skin, grounding him with pain. Physical pain was so much more endurable than mental pain, in his far-too-extensive experience, and this whole pensieve thing was practically screaming ‘mind-fuck’.

Dawlish ignored him. He pulled out a small vial, misty with a captured memory, and poured it into the pensieve. He looked at Draco, dropped the smile, and waved at the silvery water. “After you.”

Draco lowered his head to the water reluctantly, almost hoping to feel a hand on the back of his head, forcing him under for a simple drowning. Instead, as expected, he plunged into a scene. Someone’s memory:

It was dark. Draco blinked as his eyes adjusted, feeling more than seeing Dawlish arrive beside him in the memory. Slowly the space around him resolved into a stone cell. Moonlight, bisected by metal bars, shone through a small window set high in one wall. 

“Azkaban,” Draco breathed. If Dawlish was trying to scare him, it was working. Unnecessary, but working. “I assure you,” he said in a voice he couldn’t have made stiffer if he tried, “you don’t need to impress upon me what I face if my probation is revoked.”

“Wait,” Dawlish said, radiating satisfaction. “I haven’t brought you here just to show you the accommodations.”

Draco waited. What else could he do? There was something in the corner, he was fairly sure. Someone, actually, he realized as the shape resolved into a figure tossing restlessly on a low, dirty mattress in the corner. Was that his father? Is that what Dawlish wanted him to see, Father brought low and miserable? 

He would have moved toward the corner to look but Dawlish held a hand out, motioning him to stay where he was. The moonlight was creeping across the floor in any case. Soon it would reach the mattress and he’d be able to see. 

The door clanged open. Guards dragged a prisoner in. His hair obscured his face, hanging limply in ragged tufts, but Draco didn’t need to see his features to recognize that long, thin, formerly elegant frame.

“Father,” he said quietly. Father didn’t hear him, of course. This had already happened. When? Last night? When he was with Harry, when he was happy for the first time in, well, fuck, years, had this been happening? Sick guilt swamped him, acid and heavy and dark. “Is he—” He couldn’t finish that. Was this Dawlish’s idea of a condolence call, letting the next of kin know in the nastiest of ways that Father was dead?

Dawlish smiled. “He’s alive. For now.”

Draco wobbled. Father was still alive. For all the horror Father had dragged him through, Draco still couldn’t bear to see him hurt. That softness, he supposed, was what had made him such a terrible Death Eater. It could make him a good son, though, if it helped him do whatever it took to save his father, right?

“Watch now.” Dawlish pulled them back until they were standing with their backs to the door. They had a marvelous view of the room, especially now that the moonlight had found its way across the floor, lighting up the space. 

Draco watched, as instructed. His father crawled across the floor, heading for the corner opposite the person on the mattress. Not a cell-mate, then? His father was pulling himself painfully upright now, for some reason determined to stand in the corner, back to the wall? His legs shook underneath him, skinny pale and sticking almost obscenely out from his ripped prison tunic. 

A low, pained sound came from the shape in the corner. No, not just a shape: the moonlight now illuminated a man, face turned towards them. No one Draco recognized, but he seemed innocuous enough, as cellmates went, and if there was anything in the man’s mild brown eyes as he looked at Father, it was worry.

Then the man’s eyes snapped shut. His face twisted, his back arched, and Draco could feel his agony even through the distance of time and memory.  The man’s arms went taut with strain and manacles clanked as he began to thrash. Skin ripped, fur sprouting forth, a pelt painted silver in the moonlight. His mouth opened and he screamed, a human sound which morphed into a howl as his mouth elongated into a muzzle, his eyes sinking back into a canine skull. Face raised to the moon, the man retreated and the monster emerged entire, poised on legs turned into haunches, snout turning this way and that, sniffing at the air.

“Werewolf,” Draco said, throat gone tight. It was such a mild word, compared to the terrifying reality.

“Good job,” Dawlish said dryly. “Nice to know the curriculum at Hogwarts isn’t entirely useless.”

“My father.” Draco stayed as immobile as Father in his corner. This had already happened, he had to remind himself, to keep from flinging himself between his father and the wolf. Had Father already been turned?  Or simply eaten? “What did you do to him?”

“Oh, nothing yet.” Dawlish’s voice carried a hint of a smile. “Look--if he stands very, very still, pressed tightly into his corner, he’s perfectly safe.”

The wolf hurled himself across the cell as they watched. Chains snapped and rattled and its claws lashed out, a hair’s-breadth from Father. If there’d been any air in Draco’s lungs, it would have condensed directly into tears.

Dawlish pointed to the chains that snapped and rattled as again the man-wolf lunged at Father. “The chain length is very carefully measured, you know.”

Father’s legs trembled.

“Of course,” Dawlish continued, “if he falls, he’s dead. Or turned.” Dawlish looked at Draco with mild interest on his face. “Which do you think Lucius Malfoy would consider worse?”

Draco shivered. He knew Father’s answer: he’d rather be dead. Draco also knew his own answer: he’d rather Father was turned. Father would loathe being anything less than pureblood but how could being an ‘animal’ be any worse than being a Death Eater? Animals only killed for food, not crackpot ideology. “You said nothing had happened to him.” As if hours of terror were nothing. “What does it matter, then?”

“Look at how he shakes.” Dawlish watched dispassionately as Father quivered, ghostly pale against the dark stone wall. “How many long full moon nights do you think he can manage to stay standing?” He turned and looked at Draco. “Dead or turned? You didn’t say which you thought your father would prefer but how about yourself? Which would you rather for him?”

Draco looked down at his shoes. There was still clean, fresh garden dirt on them. “Please don’t make me choose. Sir.”

“I’ll do one better than that.” Dawlish turned back toward Father. “I’ll give you a chance for it to be neither.”

Hope leaped inside Draco, in that stupid little place that still imagined Father and Mother could someday be back together, safe at home, with all of the horror of the war behind them. The more painfully experienced part of him cringed—Dawlish was showing him this for some very nasty reason. “What do you want from me?”

Dawlish snapped his fingers. “I think we’ve seen enough here.”

The memory pulled away, spitting them out. Draco sat back from the pensieve, sputtering a little. The sun was a little higher overhead and his body had warmed while his mind had been in that eternally cold cell in Azkaban.

Dawlish, on the opposite bench, looked just the same. “There’s a book,” he continued briskly. “A grimoire which I obtained from Malfoy Manor.”

 _Stole_ , Draco translated in his head. Any number of things had been taken during the never-ending post-war searches of his home. Not that he was in any position to complain. “Sir?”

Dawlish drummed his fingers on the table. “I can’t open it.”

Of course not, Draco also didn’t say. “Most of the family grimoires require a key to open.”

“I know.” Dawlish tapped the pensieve, pulling the memory back out and storing it again in it vial. With another tap, he shrank the pensieve. “Your father was kind enough to explain that to me already.”

Draco tried not to imagine what Dawlish might have done to Father to get even that much information. Father would never give up family secrets lightly. “Yes?”

“The key is at the Manor, according to your esteemed Father. In a room only a Malfoy-by-blood can access.”

“Yes?” Dawlish hardly needed Draco’s permission to take Father to the Manor.

 _Oh,_ Draco realized—Dawlish couldn’t get Ministry permission to take Father to the Manor. Either that or he didn’t dare draw attention to himself by asking. “You want to take me to the Manor to get the grimoire key?”

Dawlish just stared, apparently waiting for Draco to catch up to what he really wanted.

No, of course that wasn’t it. Dawlish would have just taken Draco there if that was what he wanted. He wouldn’t need to threaten Draco into it. “I can’t go there by myself,” Draco said slowly, feeling his way into what he suspected Dawlish wanted, which was to obtain the key without drawing attention to himself in any way. “You know that. I’m not permitted in the Manor without supervision.”

“I know. I just don’t care. If you want to save your dear father, you’ll find a way. Deliver the key by the next full moon and your father will have a more peaceful evening.” Dawlish grinned. “You’re resourceful. You proved that in the war.”

Draco turned his head away, trying not to let the surging anger and frustration and sheer need to scream show on his face. It wasn’t _fair_. Which was a stupid thing to think but damn it all, he’d been trying so hard to be good and now the one person who, more than anyone, was supposed to be keeping him on the right track was instead forcing him to break the rules.

Dawlish stood, gave him a nod that was so professional it was an insult to Aurors everywhere, and strode off. Draco stayed behind, sitting at the stone table. He turned his head rather than watch that smug retreating back, trying to focus on the greenery instead.

An apple, bright-red, gleaming, dangled from a branch. Focus on that, he told himself. Breathe. Don’t panic. His heart wasn’t listening—it rabbited along, knocking out a rhythm that said _fatherfatherfatherfatherfather_ over and over again. He couldn’t calm himself and it was all the apple’s fault. It was a shit meditation focus because he hated those trees and their stupid poison apples that lured you in by looking like they’d taste so sweet and be so healthy. They weren’t: one bite and you’d fall down dead, to fertilize the soil with your rotting corpse.

His eyes darted to the snake wrapped around the apple tree’s trunk, as green and bright as the leaves on the tree. Each tree had one, its own resident serpent and if you knew where to look, you could find the fang marks on each apple, just by the stem, where their venom was injected. Wasn’t symbiosis sweet? Nature at her bloody finest--animal and vegetable, coming together to share a kill.

Draco shuddered as it turned a yellow eye on him. He hated snakes now. Humiliating for a Slytherin, but how could you live in a house with the Dark Lord’s darling Nagini and not be terrified of them? His heart sped up a little more as its forked tongue flickered out, hoping he’d come closer, but that was good—at least now he had a physical threat to excuse the thudding of his heart. Then it moved, gliding down the trunk and it was coming for him, he _knew_ it, and he was panicking, just like in sixth year. Draco scrambled to his feet, and broke and ran, tearing past the gate and through the garden, terrified for himself, terrified for Father.

He was barely inside the castle, by the room where the gardening tools were stored, when he saw Nott. Nott grinned and licked his lips and Draco was about to scream _not now _ when the  _ fatherfatherfather _ thud turned into  _ favorfavorfavor _ .

“Theo,” Draco said, pulling himself together as well as he could manage. “Good morning.”

“Came to find you,” Nott said with stupid leer and a nod toward the tool room. “Knew you’d be around here. You’ve got a contract to honor.”

Draco followed him into the tool room, miserable, and closed the door behind them.  _ Harry _ , he thought with a little whine of want, but Harry, of all people, owed him nothing. Harry would never understand Draco’s need to save Lucius Malfoy. He’d be disgusted with Draco, and that was right and good, because Draco  _ was _ disgusting and he should never have allowed a night in Harry’s bed to make him think otherwise.

Nott grinned and pointed to the floor. Draco went over and sank to his knees, which was just as well because they’d been about to give way beneath him anyway. He opened Nott’s fly and tried to smile. There was nothing he could do for Father without favors. This was his world—the real, Slytherin world—and he needed to get to work.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's reading along! The next chapter will be posted Saturday, June 2. As always, your kudos, comments, and recs are deeply appreciated and keep us going. Come chat with us [on tumblr!](https://lefthanded-basilisk.tumblr.com) The ask box is open.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With much thanks to maesterchill for the beta; any remaining mistakes are ours. And thank you to everyone who is following along with the series! We're so glad you're here.

****Harry stirred, moving closer toward the warmth on the other side of the bed as he came awake.

_Malfoy._

The name floated into the edges of his barely-awake brain. _Malfoy_ . The “M” a hum of pleasure. the “a” Malfoy’s mouth opening in an _ahh_ of exhaled breath when Harry touched him. The “l” made by a tongue-flick through opened lips. The “f” for fuck. The “o” the sound Malfoy made when he came, long and sweet and aching. And the “y” for yes. Yes to Harry. Yes to this. Remembering it, Harry’s hand was already stroking his morning erection. He and Malfoy had messed around twice more during the night, lying side by side and snogging while they brought each other off with their hands and it had been nothing short of spectacular. It was as if, ever since first year, he’d had an itch that he couldn’t quite reach to scratch, or a stone in his shoe that he’d never been able to shake out, and now he’d finally managed to attend to it.

That itch, that stone, those were his feelings for Malfoy. For _Draco_. The ones that lay under all their baiting and taunting and hexing of each other. The ones that lay buried deep beneath all the harm Malfoy had caused. Maddening because they’d always been just out of reach. But not anymore.

Eyes still closed, Harry stretched out his free hand, fingers searching for Draco’s arm or shoulder. Or perhaps he might move his hand a bit lower--

“Harry?” said Ron’s voice.

Harry’s eyes flew open. Ron’s freckled face was poking around the doorframe, and Draco was nowhere in sight.

 _Fuck._ In the excitement of getting Malfoy into his bed yesterday, Harry had managed to forget that this was actually Ron’s bed as much as it was Harry’s. And Harry hadn’t even bothered to ask Ron if he minded making other arrangements for the night. Where had Ron slept? Were Ron’s things still in here? Was Ron going to stop speaking to him the way he had in fourth year? A sick feeling crept into the pit of Harry’s stomach.

“Hey,” he said weakly. “I er…” He had no idea how to begin. What would Hermione do in a situation like this? “I guess we should talk,” he finished.

Ron flopped down on the unmade bed and then sat up again, wrinkling his nose. “Harry, mate. If you’re going to be, you know, doing your contractual obligations in here, you might brush up on your freshening charms.” Ron slipped his wand from the pocket of his pajama trousers and waved it over the bed. The scent of lemons and lavender filled the air, reminding Harry of the smell of the Burrow. He felt a sharp stab of guilt, made worse by the fact that Ron didn’t even seem angry with him.

“Uh, about last night,” he ventured.

“Yeah.” Ron looked down at him, his blue eyes bright. “It was bloody perfect. How’d you do it? I didn’t think house elves could be bribed--Fred and George have tried it hundreds of times. What’s the secret?”

Harry rubbed his eyes and sat up, drawing the sheet around his waist. He hadn’t bribed any house elves. But Ron didn’t seem to notice his confusion.

“You should see Hermione’s room now,” Ron went on happily. “That house elf who’s so gone on you--Whidby?--she Apparated my stuff right in, and you know Hermione’s really good with enlargement charms--on the room, I mean--so we’ve practically got a suite to ourselves now. Only problem was the charm faded during the night and we woke up being squished into a filing cabinet, but Hermione recast it with a double duration spell and it seems to be holding fine now.”

“That’s great, Ron.” Harry tried to get his brain into gear. So not only had Ron not come back to find Harry shagging Malfoy in what was supposed to be Ron’s bed, Widley had magicked all of Ron’s belongings into Hermione’s room, and then Hermione had enlarged it into a suite for her and Ron? He made a mental note to ask Hermione for her thoughts on an appropriate gift for Widley, and to buy Hermione that fact-finder quill he’d seen her ogling in Flourish and Blott’s at the start of term.

The thought of gifts and favors turned his mind back to Malfoy and the contract. Where was Malfoy anyway? If he’d gone for a shower he might be back any minute, and Harry didn’t fancy Ron finding out from Malfoy that he’d spent the night in Harry’s bed. It would be better to break it to Ron before Malfoy came back, which meant he didn’t have much time. Definitely not time enough to explain to Ron that he’d had feelings for Malfoy for years. Maybe for now he could just say that since he’d become the contracted sucker, he’d been getting a lot more experience, and somehow yesterday that experience had involved sucking Malfoy off in front of Neville and Blaise, and then from there things had… well, they had escalated, that was all. Escalated rather a lot.

“Come on, Harry, let’s go to breakfast.”

“Uh, Ron?”

“Yeah.”

“About the contract.”

Ron’s cheeks turned pink and he suddenly became very interested in dragging his toe along a broad crack in the stone floor. “It’s okay, mate. I don’t--I won’t ask you to do me again or anything. I mean, it was good, don’t get me wrong, but last night when I was lying next to Hermione, I started feeling a bit weird about it, you know? I mean, last year, when I was so sure the two of you were having it off--”

“That was the horcrux making you think that.”

“I _know_. But if Hermione found out you and I were--well, you know how girls are about that kind of thing. They take it really seriously, at least Hermione does. Maybe not Ginny so much. I mean, I know she took it seriously with you, but--Merlin, Harry, help a bloke out here.”

“We’re good, Ron.”

Ron looked up from the floor, his face anxious. “You mean it?”

“Yeah. It’s just…” Harry hesitated. Was there ever a good time to tell your best mate that you’d finally realized you were into the person you’d both always considered your worst enemy? He hadn’t even confessed to Ron that he liked blokes. He should start with that, maybe. “I found out how the sucker was chosen,” he said. Okay, so he was stalling a little.

“Did the twins mean it to be you all along? Thought they’d make you into a right proper Weasley brother, something like that?”

“Not exactly.” He’d come this far. He needed to keep going. “Actually, the twins meant for the sucker to be George.”

“And?” Ron raised one eyebrow, waiting for Harry to go on.

Harry raised an eyebrow back, waiting for Ron to add it up. When the knut dropped, Ron swore.

“Always knew George was a poof,” he said. “He was always just a bit too into it, wasn’t he. He always… wait, hang on a tick. If it was supposed to be George then how come… oh, shit.” He stared at Harry, looking stricken.

 _There’s nothing wrong with being gay,_ Harry thought. _I know there’s not. Hermione knows it too, and Zabini, and loads of people. George and Fred, and Ginny probably, and--_

“You?” Ron said. “You’re a… I mean, no you’re not. I’d know if you were.”

“You know now. I’m telling you I am, Ron.”

“But that’s… Oi, Harry. It’s not because of, you know, you sucking me off that one time, is it?” Ron’s face was a mess of unease. “I mean, we’re best mates, but we’re not--I don’t--” he hopped off the bed and began pacing the little room, which meant he was able to take exactly two steps the length of the bed before he came to the wall. He took the same two steps back again, to where Harry sat leaning against the headboard, looking up at him and feeling slightly sick.

“It’s not because of you,” Harry said.

“But you and Ginny!”

“Never worked out.”

“So you’ve been servicing every bloke in eighth year and you _like_ it?”

“Not so loud, dear brother, or all the seventh years will want a contract too.” One of the twins had poked his head around the door frame.

“We did Harry a favor.” The other twin’s head appeared beside his brother’s. This twin must be Fred, Harry realized, because the left side of his jaw was swollen where Harry had punched him the day before.  Fred reached out and hit Ron on the side of the head. “Don’t mind this wanker,” he said to Harry. “He’ll come round. Just because _he_ doesn’t like sucking cock, he thinks nobody else can either.”

“It’s not that,” Ron protested. “But Harry, why didn’t you say anything? You should have told me.”

“If you weren’t such a git about it, maybe he would have,” the twin who was George said. He looked appraisingly around the room. “Got yourself sorted then, Harry? Nice digs. A bit cramped, maybe, but I wouldn’t mind dropping by for a visit sometime soon.” He shook his head. “We’ve been sadly neglecting your oral education, but I promise we’ll make it up to you in spades.”

“Fuck off, George.” The words were out of Harry’s mouth before he had time to think. “And you too, Fred. The both of you can fuck right off.”

The twins’ faces lost their grins.

“You almost killed me and Malfoy, do you realize that?”

Fred and George looked at each other, some sort of silent twin communication passing between them.

“We’re sorry, Harry,” Fred said.

“You know we never thought you’d be in danger,” George added. “We didn’t know the Slytherin doors would seal shut, you know we didn’t.”

“It’s why I didn’t heal my jaw,” Fred said. “My penance for having endangered you. Hurts like a hippogriff. Of course, I do need to heal it before we go down to breakfast. Don’t want to draw any more of McGonagall’s attention.”

 _You endangered Malfoy too,_ Harry wanted to say. _Not just me. Malfoy. Draco._ But he didn’t. “I want out of the contract,” he said instead. “I don’t care what you have to do, but do something. I’m not your sucker anymore.”

The twins looked at each other, then at Harry, bafflement on both their faces.

“But why…”

“If the wand chose _you_ …”

“Now that you’ve pinched it, you can’t simply _waste_ it…”

“Besides, the contract’s _binding…”_

“Especially around the bollocks, if you recall--Oi, Harry! Easy there.”

Clutching the sheet over his groin, Harry had leapt up from the bed and was pointing his wand at Fred’s throat.

“I _told_ you Harry was still narked off,” Ron said, but he made no move to protect his brothers.

“Harry.” Fred raised his own wand and pointed it himself. A puff of dark purple smoke came out the end and hovered around his face for a moment before dissolving. When it did, Harry saw that Fred now sported a black eye to match his swollen jaw. “I’ll save you the trouble, yeah, Harry?” He winced. “Less painful this way.”

“I said, I want out of the contract. Now.” Harry lowered his wand, but not all the way. He pointed it straight at Fred’s bits; then, when Fred flinched, he flicked his wand George’s way as well. “Listen, both of you. You tricked me and you lied to me and you nearly killed two people. Now break the contract or I’ll hex your balls off myself, I swear.”

George gave an inexplicable crow of delight. “But you’re a step ahead, young Harry! Well done!”

Harry glanced at Fred, who was grinning as well, and then at Ron, who shrugged. “If it were up to me mate,” Ron said, “I’d hex ‘em off anyway. It’d serve them right.”

“No need, no need.” Fred adopted a conciliatory tone. “Harry here has already figured out the loophole, haven’t you, Harry-lad? If you refuse a request and the contract magic starts squeezing your bollocks, there’s nothing says you can’t just hex the bloke who asked you for a suck. When he withdraws the request, your bits swing easy again. Nothing to it.”

“I’m not going to spend the rest of the year threatening to hex my dorm mates,” Harry growled. Sure, Neville and Ron and Dean would respect that he didn’t want to do it, but Seamus had already proven he didn’t care much about Harry’s feelings on the subject once he’d signed the contract. And McLaggen wasn’t likely to take kindly to this turn of events either. “You want a Gryffindor sucker? You do it, George.”

The twins looked at each other, their expressions unreadable.

“You wanted to be the sucker anyway,” Harry said to George. “Tell everyone you’re taking my place, and if they want a suck, they have to come to you now. If they ask why, you can explain it’s your penance for nearly drowning me in the Slytherin dungeons, which it is.” Fred opened his mouth to speak, but Harry swung his wand back at Fred’s bits and Fred simply licked his lips and fell silent. “You owe me that,” Harry said. “Both of you. Now get the fuck out of my room.”

Both twins straightened up and, as if they’d rehearsed it, saluted Harry in tandem and left. Harry shut the door and sank down on the bed beside Ron.

“That was _mental_ ,” Ron said.

“I have a lot more sympathy for your mum now,” Harry muttered.

“Well, at least you’re out of the contract. But Harry, a word of advice. I wouldn’t trust my dick in George’s mouth no matter how desperate I get, and you shouldn’t either. You’re liable to come out with it just two inches long and bright green.”

“Thanks, mate,” Harry said. Ron was right. He’d never trust George or Fred again, not even if the contract--oh, shit. 

He needed to tell Draco he could get out of the contract. If Draco wasn’t even sure whether he liked blokes because of that key thing, surely he wasn’t going to be keen on getting on his knees for the rest of the eighth year Slytherin boys. Besides, Harry didn’t want him to. When they’d fooled around last night, Draco had seemed to like it very much indeed, and Harry liked being the one who’d made him feel that way. Well, more than liked. Even thinking about it now was making his stomach flip in a way that was half pleasant and half frightening, and one hundred percent arousing. He needed to find Draco now and tell him the good news, and then find a place to get him alone again as soon as humanly possible. The Room of Requirement, maybe.

 _Draco Malfoy._ _I’m in love with Draco Malfoy._ He wouldn’t tell Draco that yet, of course. He needed to get to the bottom of this key thing first. He didn’t want to get attached to someone only to have them disappear again. Losing Sirius had been almost more than he could take, and since then, something inside him had been different. He hadn’t been able to get close to other people the way he could before, and if he was honest, it had only got worse since the war ended. He’d even felt distant from Ron and Hermione this term, and he hadn’t gone to visit Remus once. Between Remus nearly dying in the battle of Hogwarts and the specter of Sirius’s death still hanging between them, it had been easier to keep away.

But being with Draco last night had made something hopeful bloom inside Harry. Something more than exhausted relief that there probably wouldn’t be any more mass killing for a while. A feeling that maybe, possibly, it might be okay to reach out again.

“Oi, _Harry_.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Have you been hit with a deafness spell? I _said_ , get dressed and we’ll go down to breakfast.”

“You go ahead, Ron. I’m just going to--” He hesitated, not wanting to admit that he was going to go find Malfoy and tell him how to get out of the contract. “I’m going to have a shower,” he finished. “Your freshening charms are good, but I could use a proper wash.”

“Right, then.” Ron stood up and took the single step to the door. His hand was on the knob when he turned. “Harry?”

“Yeah.”

“Before, when I said, er, you know. When you said you like blokes. I was... I was just surprised, that’s all.” He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his robes and looked as if he wished he could stuff all of himself in after them. “You’re still my best mate, yeah?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Ron.” Harry felt a swell of relief in his chest. “You’re mine, too.”

But even as he spoke, he felt a tug of guilt in his stomach. How was he ever going to tell Ron how he felt about Malfoy?

And where was Malfoy? Harry hoped he hadn’t drowned in the showers, or worse, that someone hadn’t got him cornered somewhere and was hexing him for fun.

“Go on, I’m right behind you,” Harry said, resisting the urge to push Ron out of his room. He waited until he had started down the passageway, then Summoned the Marauder’s Map from his trunk, and began searching for Draco.

There. In the Hogwarts kitchen wing, of all places, in a small room Harry had never noticed that stood just inside the door to the kitchen gardens. And Draco wasn’t alone. As Harry watched, the name _Theodore Nott_ floated up to Draco’s, edging closer on the parchment until the inky letters of their names were touching.

Fuck. _Fuck._ What had Nott said yesterday? _If he needs a good kicking, we’re happy to do it._

Harry felt all his hair stand on end, as if his anger were an electrical current. He would hex Nott into oblivion, right after he pummeled his stupid face, if he had so much as _touched_ Draco. Harry threw on a pair of joggers and a tee shirt, shoved his feet into his trainers, and ran for the kitchen wing.

Not until he flung open the door the Map had led him to did he understand. Their bodies touching all right, but not because they were fighting. Draco was on his knees facing away from Harry, his head buried in Nott’s groin. Nott was leaning against the wall, eyes closed and robes open, his hand in Draco’s hair.

 _“Petrificus Totalis,”_ Harry cried, and Nott went rigid, his hips frozen mid-thrust.

Draco gagged and tried to jerk his head back. But Nott’s hand, frozen while clutching a fistful of pale hair, held him in place.

Shit. Draco was choking. _“Finite Incantatem,”_ Harry shouted, and Nott shuddered to life again, his eyes snapping open and his feet shuffling as he struggled to regain his balance. Draco pushed himself free and turned on his knees, his mouth wet and his eyes wild.

“ _Potter_?” He didn’t sound even slightly grateful for Harry’s intervention. “What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

“It’s all right, Draco. You don’t have to be the dorm sucker anymore. I found out how to break the contract.”

Nott pointed his wand at Harry. _“Flipendo!”_

“ _Impedimenta_!” Harry blocked the hex, which bounced back at Nott, causing him to stumble sideways, into a shelf piled with gardening trowels.

“Potter!” Draco got to his feet. “Get the fuck out of here! Fuck off!”

Nott pointed his wand at Harry. _“Voco vespas.”_

Harry ducked as a swarm of wasps shot out of Nott’s wand

 _“Ventus!”_ he blocked. The spell called up a gust of wind that rattled the shelves as it whirled the wasps into a small tornado. _“Expelliarmus!”_ Harry shouted. _“Oppugno!”_ Nott’s wand flew from his hand and was sucked into the vortex as the spinning blur of wasps headed for Nott, sucking up several fallen trowels along the way. One struck Nott full in the face, and the tornado pulled the blood from his nose, infusing the swirling cloud with a fine red mist. Nott clutched his face and staggered, crashing into the shelves a second time.

Draco pointed his wand at Harry. _“Flagello!”_

The hex caught Harry on the upper arm, a searing pain that streaked from his shoulder to his elbow. “Malfoy, what the fuck?” he yelled, while behind Draco, Nott sank to the floor, his head obscured by the swirling vortex of wasps and blood. Harry clutched his lashed arm and shouted louder, desperate to make Draco understand. “You don’t have to service Nott! You can get out of the contract! Fred and George told me--”

Draco spun away from Harry, pointing his wand at Nott. _“Finite Incantatum,”_ he said, and the wasp tornado cleared, leaving a stunned-looking Nott on the floor cradling his bleeding nose. Then he turned back to Harry.

“I’m going to have to suck him off all over again,” he hissed furiously. “Now are you going to get the fuck out of here, or do I have to hex you out?”

“You don’t have to suck him off at all, that’s what I’m trying to tell you!”

“You have no fucking idea what I have to do.” Malfoy took a step toward Harry, his wand raised threateningly. “Now for the last time Potter: will you sod the fuck off, or do I have to hex your sorry arse?”

It was as if the last two days of intimacy had never happened. They were back to how they’d always been, duelling each other in barely-controlled hatred. Harry felt his magic surge around him, wild and furious, making his wand hand shake as he tried to process what was happening.

“Not leaving then, I take it?” Malfoy sneered, his expression as cold as his voice. “Fine. _Depulso_!”

Harry blocked instinctively. “ _Impedimenta_!”

_“Tarantalleg--”_

“ _Serpensortia!_ ” Harry bellowed. An enormous black snake flew from the end of his wand and landed on the floor between them.  

They both froze, staring at it. The snake uncoiled itself and turned toward Malfoy. Harry lowered his wand from Malfoy’s chest, trying to regain control of his magic, but he was so angry his vision itself seemed to waver, making the room undulate like the snake as it made its way across the floor toward Malfoy. When it reached his foot it stopped. Then, swaying on huge coils, it raised itself up off the ground until its head was level with Malfoy’s thigh.

Malfoy was frozen in place, his eyes huge.

 _“Stop.”_ Harry heard himself give the command to the snake, but the word was in English, not Parseltongue. He tried again. _“Stop! Don’t hurt him.”_

English again. He hadn’t attempted to speak Parseltongue since Voldemort died; now that he wasn’t a horcrux anymore, was he was no longer a Parselmouth either? The snake reared back, preparing to strike, its thin fangs bared.

 _“Incendio,”_ Harry shouted in desperation, and the snake exploded in a thick ribbon of flame.

Malfoy screamed. A line of fire arced across his trousers, a fiery silhouette of the snake’s burning body.

 _“Aguamenti.”_ Harry pointed his wand at Malfoy, and the issuing jet of water doused the lower half of his body, extinguishing the flames.

Malfoy continued to scream, if you could call it that. The noise he was making was lower than a scream, though with the same intensity, and it came in short, sobbing gasps, as if Malfoy couldn’t get enough air into his lungs.

_"Malfoy.”_ Harry took a deep breath, trying to ease his magic back to manageable levels. _"Draco."_

His eyes were so wide Harry could see the whites all around the gray. Draco shook his head, the panicked sounds spilling uncontrollably from his mouth. Then he dodged past Harry and tore out of the tool room.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be posted in a week or so, depending on how much RL intervenes. Subscribe on AO3 to be notified when the next installment posts, and/or come say hi to us on tumblr, because we've finally got a tumblr account! The ask box is open at [@lefthanded-basilisk](https://lefthanded-basilisk.tumblr.com). As always, thank you for your comments, kudos and recs--they keep us going and we appreciate each one so much.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to Maesterchill for the ongoing beta!

  
  


Draco running. His life contracted down to one imperative:  _ run.  _

Can’t think

_ run _

can’t stop

_ run _

can’t breathe

_ RUN _

from Nagini, from FiendFyre, from the water threatening to drown him. From the cock choking him, turning to stone in his mouth. Run from  _ Potter,  _ bringer of Draco’s near-deaths back to life.

Feet pounding the empty Sunday morning corridors and his breath coming not coming, not enough, but he was running still and if he could still run, he was still alive.

It was only when his feet refused to go any farther than the oak door with iron hinges, in the farthest recesses of the Slytherin dungeons, that he stopped and fell to his knees, the choked sobs deeper now. Of course his feet had carried him here, to the door of the one man in the castle who might protect him. And of course that man was dead. Draco pressed his cheek against the door that had once led to Professor Snape’s office, his whole body shaking.

“Goodness gracious. It’s Draco Malfoy isn’t it? Whatever is the matter?”

_ Slughorn, _ said something far away in Draco’s head. It didn’t matter though, because  _ snake fire water burning drowning _ . Draco drew his knees to his chest, doing his best to curl into a ball. He was going to drown, or be burned alive, or be killed by Nagini. He was in terrible danger, he was always in terrible danger, and there was nowhere left to hide. All he could do now was hold very still and hope not to be seen, but he could not stop shaking and he had been spotted and now he was going to die.

“Here now, steady on.” A heavy hand fell on Draco’s shoulder and began tugging him upward. Draco clenched himself tighter, trying and failing to stop the sobs spilling from his mouth. 

“Dear, dear. Panic attack, is it? Nasty things.”

_ Slughorn, this is Slughorn,  _ a voice inside him was saying.  _ Get a grip. _ Slughorn was rolling him over. Draco caught a glimpse of the enormous mustache and then shut his eyes, the humiliation of being seen in this condition making him shake all the harder.

“Drink this, my boy.”

The lip of a glass phial was being pressed against Draco’s lips. Instinctively he jerked his head away, but some of the liquid went in. Draco sputtered and coughed, his mouth burning with what seemed to be pineapple-flavored firewhiskey.

“That’s the way, now. Calming draught. Never without one, myself, not since the war. Now this one’s brewed specially for me by Flavius Jigger himself. But you can brew your own well enough. We ought to have a lesson on that for the eighth years, come to think of it.”  

Draco took a deep breath, then realized he  _could_ take a deep breath. He tried to dry his face on his shirtsleeve, but that was no use; he was still crying uncontrollably.  

“Up you get, now. Can’t pass the afternoon sprawled across my threshold, you’ll get trod upon; I’m expecting company at any moment. Besides, this floor’s still frightfully dank.”

Draco drew another shuddering breath and uncurled himself. Slughorn’s large, heavy hands were gripping his arms now, tugging him upward. Draco managed to get his feet underneath him and rise shakily to something resembling half-standing.

“Here, Malfoy, step in for just a moment.” Slughorn marched him over the threshold. “Take another swallow, that’s right. We’ll have you right as rain in no time.”

The potion burned his throat, but as it reached his stomach, Draco felt it begin to work almost immediately, slowing his racing heart and sending a curious tingling feeling through his arms and legs.

“I’m expecting Lars and Liam Travers for Sunday brunch,” Slughorn said meaningfully.

“Oh?” Draco wiped at his wet face and tried to remember if this were something he was supposed to know. His hands were still shaking and he felt entirely lost.

“The twin Beaters for Puddlemere from 1983 to 1987, of course.” Slughorn gave Draco a shrewd look, his enormous mustache twitching. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t ask you to sit down. I’ve only just got the last of the flood water out of my davenport and it took rather longer than I expected, which has put me behind on preparations. Besides, I think it best if we Floo you straight to Madame Pomfrey.”

“Not Pomfrey,” Draco said. He couldn’t go to the hospital wing, not now. Pomfrey would realize he was finally cracking up. She’d send him to St. Mungo’s and that would be the end of him. He should have died in the Fiendfyre, or drowned, or even been bitten by Nagini. It would be better than being locked up on the Janus Thickey ward with all the others the Dark Lord and his followers had sent permanently round the twist--

“Just take a pinch of powder,” Slughorn continued, steering him into the fireplace as if Draco were a Muggle-born first year who’d never seen a Floo before. “Now stand up straight, that’s it.”  

Slughorn wasn’t going to accompany him, Draco realized. He could Floo anywhere he liked. So he took a deep breath, released the Floo powder, and called out, “Arithmancy Room” in as clear a voice as he could manage.  

A moment later, the Floo belched and spat him out into the Arithmancy antechamber like he was something nasty caught in the castle’s throat. He hit the carpet and sprawled, inches short of the plush sofa placed there for visiting scholars awaiting use of the arithmancy equation room. Draco pulled himself up, heart still pounding even as the calming potion worked its magic. He gasped, grabbing the armrest for balance, then threw himself forward, wrenching open the door to the Equation Room.

Blaise was inside. Thank God. Draco had known he would be—Pansy and Blaise were the only two people in the castle willing to defend him and he knew where they were at all times, because he was a craven piece of shit who needed others to defend him, because he was too weak to do it himself. He tried to muster some defense against that voice, to say it had taken courage just to survive the war, but it didn’t listen. Instead, it said something completely stupid and unrelated. There were _three_ people, the voice inside his head insisted—Potter would defend him too. Except Potter was the one who had attacked him—   


Blaise was staring at him. Equations squirmed on the walls, neglected for the moment but trying to get their formulator’s attention. “Draco?”   


Draco staggered in, feeling the door slam behind him with a burst of magic he hadn’t even intended. “Blaise, help--” he said, though he had no idea what he was pleading for.    


Whatever it was, Blaise seemed to understand it better than Draco did. He came forward and wrapped Draco in a warm, sweet hug that was so non-sexual and loving that he ought to turn in his Slytherin credentials forever. 

“You're nothing but a fucking Hufflepuff,” Draco laugh-sobbed against Blaise's chest.

“Yeah? You’re a Beauxbatons big girl’s blouse,” Blaise said and suddenly they were back in first year, trading stupid insults in the warmth of the common room, the light from the lake tracing green and silver patterns on the walls. 

Draco reached for the next in the familiar pattern of insults that had somehow translated over the years into the subtext for the kind of words that could never be spoken in that common room.  _ Are you all right? I’m worried about you. I care about you. You’re my friend. _ “I don’t deserve you,” is what came out instead. Draco cringed inside—was saying what you felt some kind of transmissible disease, caught from Gryffindors? 

“Nobody deserves what they get,” Blaise said. He must have felt the rabbiting of Draco’s  heart against his chest but he didn’t mention it, thank God. 

“Is that,” Draco asked tentatively, finally calm enough to step back from Blaise’s hug, “why you took up this?” He waved at the room, taking in the x’s and y’s and asymptotes and linear progressions and whatever else made up the complicated swirling topography of the walls. “You want to make it all make sense?”

Blaise laughed as he guided Draco to a seat on the stairs of the central platform that dominated the room like a conductor’s podium. “See? You’ve never been the self-involved, oblivious aristocrat your father tried to make you into. You can’t help thinking about the people around you, wondering why they do the things they do, feeling your way under their skin.”

Draco managed to grin through his still-chattering teeth and made the sign of the cross. “Hush your blasphemy! We are both nothing but spoiled scions of Slytherin. We care for no one and nothing.”

“That’s more like it,” Blaise said. “Even if it isn’t true. This is all about you and Potter isn’t it?”

“I’m too broken,” Draco blurted. The words escaped his mouth before he could stop them, and as he spoke, he felt the sharp prickle of shame flare through him. “I’m disgusting and broken and I deserve what I get, and it’s not going to be him.”

“Not necessarily,” Blaise started.

“Yes,” Draco said, and now that he’d begun, it all came pouring out. “We were hexing each other and I couldn't stop. There’s too much wrong with me. You didn’t see me just now, but I was out of my head. Slughorn had to give me potions just to get me to this level.”

“You aren’t broken,” Blaise insisted. “Given what happened to you, the way you are makes  _sense_. It doesn’t make you broken.” 

It wasn’t true, Draco knew that. Blaise’s loyalty was touching, but Draco wanted him to understand. “The Dark Lord got into me everywhere,” he said. “Even when I--even when I’m with Potter, what if Voldemort’s there, too?"

"You think Voldemort would feel the way you feel about Potter?"

"But what if the way I feel about Potter is because of the Dark Lord? Voldemort destroyed my key.”

_ “Draco.” _

“What?”

“Is that how you think of it? You think you wouldn’t want Harry if you hadn’t been keyed?”

“Well, I wouldn’t. Blaise, you know what the Dark Lord di—”

“The hell with what the Dark Lord did! Draco, do you not remember what  _we_ did? You and me? _ Before _your family keyed you in third year?” 

Draco blinked at him. “That was just messing about. All boys do that.”

“Do they? Like we did? Is that really what you think?” Blaise looked away, and Draco thought he saw a blush on his friend’s cheeks, his brown skin coloring burnt sienna.

“What do  _ you _ think?” Draco asked slowly.

“I don’t think straight boys snog each other,” Blaise said softly. “Not even when they’re just messing about.” He looked back at Draco. “Voldemort took away the part of you that would have liked girls, but who’s to say you didn’t like blokes too? Maybe you were bi before. Like me. And when the Dark Lord destroyed your key, maybe he did break one part of you. But that doesn’t mean the part that’s left is broken. That’s still you, Draco. And I think it always has been.”

Draco frowned and tried to think rationally. He’d only ever kissed a few girls before he was keyed. He and Pansy had snogged once at the New Year’s Manor ball, but it had been squishy and funny and weird and they’d laughed for hours. Though some of that might have been the champagne she’d talked him into nicking—

Would he, with the other half of his sexuality intact and restored, want Pansy now instead of Potter? He didn’t think so, honestly. She was too much entwined with his childhood, the only friend who’d pushed past Lucius’s restrictions and Flooed into the Manor despite being the child of dreadful social climbers and therefore as unworthy as every other child Draco had ever wanted to play with. Pansy hadn’t cared, though. There was no word she liked as much as  _ no, _ and Father forbidding her entry had only made her more determined to sneak her way in and play with Draco. Draco swallowed, hard. He loved Pansy, it was true, but he couldn’t see himself ever loving her like  _ that _ . He’d never even wanted to fool around with her the way he had with Blaise when they were kids. 

Anyway, if he knew Pansy, there was a Muggle-born punk-rocker in her future or maybe a half-breed who specialized in werewolf outreach that would make her social-climbing mother scream just to look at. Someone as shocking and as loud as Pansy herself, someone who loved her with a passion Draco could never give her. “I do love Pansy,” he said finally.

“I know,” Blaise said, with a look that said he’d understood every single one of the thoughts that had passed through Draco’s head, unspoken.    


Draco sighed. If there was any advantage to being a Slytherin, it was this. It must be exhausting to be a Gryffindor and have to say all of these things out loud, all the time. “You love her too.”   


“I do,” Blaise said. The way he nodded his head spoke to Draco, telling him all the things Blaise didn’t need to say out loud. That Blaise loved her too, but also not  _ that _ way.   


“Do you know who you’re going to be with?” Draco waved a hand at the wall, where the equations had gone blue waiting for Blaise’s attention. “Does it tell you that?”   


Blaise grinned and turned to face the equations. “I don’t know her name. I know she’s a she, and that she’s French. I know I’m going to be head over heels for her. I know she’s good at Charms and makes a wickedly good _ tarte tatin._ ”   


Draco snorted, an inelegant sound that would have made his mother look askance at him. “You don’t know her name but you know she’s good with pie?”   


Blaise gestured at the wall and the equations swirled, making something which somehow resembled both a pie and a pie chart. “The equations will tell you things that are important to your future, if you know how to read them.”   


“Pie is that emotionally important to you?” Draco laughed.

Blaise nodded seriously, a grin hidden underneath it. “My priorities are in order, wouldn’t you say?” He smiled at the equations, which had formed into a fair representation of a smokingly delicious dessert. “The mathematics interrelates achievable outcomes with things that are emotionally important to your relationship. This pie may be something that we meet over, if I’m invited to her house, or it may be the dessert we have every anniversary, or it may be the much-loved birthday sweet of our first child. I don’t know exactly how it figures into our life, but I do know that it’s important. It’s a sense memory from the future, if that makes sense. The scent and look of this particular pie will say love to me.”   


Draco bit his lip. He wondered if Harry could cook. Lord knew, Draco couldn’t. Maybe there’d be a lopsided half-baked birthday cake forming on the wall if he were meant for Harry. Then again, he thought, biting harder on his lip, rumor had that Harry had been brought up by Muggles who had made him cook everything for the family. Maybe there was a future of excellent Sunday fry-ups waiting for him, the type which Father called common and Draco secretly adored—

Oh, God. Father. For the first time since Draco had dropped to his knees in the tool room, the conversation with Dawlish came flooding back to him. “When is the next full moon?”   


Blaise glanced at the far corner of the Arithmancy wall. “A week from today.” The quirk of Blaise’s eyebrow said this was a conversational turn he hadn’t expected. “Why?”   


Draco breathed a sigh of relief. At least his night with Harry hadn’t overlapped with the night his father had been tormented by Dawlish. Then it all spilled out of him in a rush: Azkaban, his father, the werewolf, Dawlish’s threats, the need to get the key to the grimoire for Dawlish.    


Blaise’s face was grave by the time Draco finished. “You can’t do it.”   


“I have to.”   


“You should report it. What’s happening to him is illegal.”   


“As if anyone would care what happens to Lucius Malfoy in Azkaban.” Draco shifted miserably on the step. “Remember all those op-eds in the  _ Prophet _ about how, with the Dementors gone, Azkaban was too kind for monsters like Lucius Malfoy?” Draco looked down at his lap. The Muggleborns who had been sent to Azkaban during the Dark Lord’s reign had faced the Dementors. They’d never done anything to deserve that. He’d seen how diminished his father had been after his first stay in Azkaban, when the Dementors had been there. How much those horrible cold shadow beasts had stolen, like the memories of summer days when his father had run after him in the Manor gardens and laughed and saved Draco from the stupid, bloodthirsty peacocks. The Dementors had eaten those memories entire and even if, looking back, Draco could see clearly that there’d been nothing in his father’s love that allowed for anything that didn’t reflect Lucius’s own glory, still he understood why people whose family had been both innocent and eaten away by evil—he could understand why they wanted vengeance.    


He wanted it himself, to be honest. It was ridiculous, to want vengeance against the madman he himself had followed, but he did. The Dark Lord had eaten his youth just like the Dementors ate memories, turning what should have been years filled with stupid Yule Balls and brilliant Halloween costumes into horror, pain, torture, and death. He wanted it back, those years. Without the Dark Lord, would he and Harry have come to understand there was something other than rivalry in the way they couldn’t stop shoving at each other? 

“Do you want children, Draco?” 

“Right this moment?” Draco laughed at the question, which obviously had nothing whatsoever to do with his current problems, relationship-related though they might be.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. Maybe he just meant to make Draco laugh--it helped at any rate, dispelling the remaining panic even better than the calming potion had. “I can’t imagine anything I’d be less able to cope with at this moment than an infant,” Draco finally answered.

“I think you’d be good with one.” Now Blaise had that probing, questioning look on his face, which was never safe. It meant he was looking at you with that place inside himself where magic met mathematics. His brain moved like a fucking chess-board knight, leaping right over everyone else around him. Draco had always suspected Blaise might be a genius. He’d rejected that conclusion when he was young because of course Draco himself had to be the most outstanding pupil of his year—at least according to Father—and he’d rejected it when he was older because Blaise was staying out of the war, and if the genius thought it was best to step back, then maybe Draco should too—   


And he should be thinking about Father, not about having kids or Potter or anything else. “Why are we talking about children?” he asked. 

“Because you’ve fallen for a wizard who wants them very badly.”

“Salazar on a broomstick, Blaise, that wizard just gave me a full blown panic attack. We’re not exactly planning on starting a family together. He practically killed me just now--”

“Did he?” Blaise raised that eyebrow again.

“Yes! He-- all right, fine. I may have slightly overreacted to some of his actions.”

“Perfectly understandable. So you got into a fight. Because…?”

Draco sighed. “Because he was attempting to protect me,” he admitted. “In his usual ill-conceived and completely misguided way.”

Blaise seemed to be suppressing a smile now, and damn it, it wasn’t funny.  On the wall behind them the Arithmancy equations swirled merrily around as if they too, were enjoying a laugh at Draco’s expense. The possibilities began to swirl inside Draco’s mind along with them. Gay Muggle couples had children, he knew. He supposed gay wizards could—it wasn’t common, but he’d read—and then there was adoption—would Harry want a Muggle-born? There were Muggle-borns who were rejected by families that hated magic—Draco could welcome a child like that—but what would Father say about—Merlin, what had got into him? He should be thinking about Father, not Harry. But he had to know, and maybe Blaise could tell him.

“Can you tell me,” Draco said with a diffidence he knew wasn’t fooling either of them, “if I’ll be able to be with Harry? I mean, Potter.” Guilt prodded at him, shoving him almost physically, to add, “and free my father. How can I have both?”   


Blaise scratched his arm, which was his long-standing tell that he had something to say that he didn’t think you’d want to hear.   


“What? Have you already looked at that? Without asking me?”   


Blaise blew out a long breath. “Honestly, Draco, Pansy and I have seen this thing with Potter coming for a long time. Years. Do you think I haven’t done the maths?”   


“Well, do it for me!” Draco rose to his feet. That panicked feeling was squeezing at his heart again.   


A knock came on the door. A rat-a-tat that was both firm and kind of, well, diffident sounding. Like it absolutely meant to interrupt but also felt a little bad about interrupting. But was going to do it anyway. If a knock had a way to sound guilty, this knock did.   


The equations swirled. They turned and spelled a ‘y’.    


“Yes?” Blaise called out.   


Potter’s voice came through the door. “I was, er, looking for Draco…” 

“Don’t come in,” Draco said, the panic seizing him again, fighting against the calming waves of the potion like a boat determined to turn easy sailing into rough. “I’m not in here.”

“Er. Right.” Harry paused, then seemed to recover with the modicum of sense that said he shouldn’t address that directly. Because sometimes when you said something absolutely stupid—even if it were true in a metaphorical kind of emotional sense, it shouldn’t be called out. “Well…if you were there, I’d want to say I’m er, really, really sorry. I know I scared you and I feel terrible.”   


The lock on the door clicked closed.    


“I don’t think locking us in is going to make Draco—who, as stated, absolutely isn’t in here—feel any better,” Blaise called out.   


“I didn’t. Er, lock you in.” Potter sounded painfully hesitant. “I locked myself out. I can’t get in but you can leave anytime. If you do want to leave, the Floo will automatically suck me off to another part of the castle. I, er, I just wanted to come and apologize and I don’t want you to feel, er, trapped in there or anything—”   


“How did you find me?” Draco felt like the question had been building for years. Potter had always had an uncanny knack for knowing where anybody else was in the castle.   


“I’ve got a map. The Marauders—” Potter stopped, which was just as well, because the sentence was nonsensical. Marauders? Like, as in Vikings? Or barbarians? Barbarian Vikings told him where people were?

“What are you doing here?” Draco snapped out, moving on to the important question. Blaise had moved closer to him, his hand within squeezing distance. “There’s nothing you need to say to me.”

“I’m sorry. That’s what I need to say.” Potter’s voice sounded like he was leaning against the door, like he couldn’t hold up his own weight, like he was talking directly to the wood. “I mean, Hermione says I don’t know my own strength and I really, truly, didn’t mean to panic you, and I can completely see how snakes and fire and water might have, well, bad associations. For you. Right now.” The swallow that followed was profound, transmitted through wood and silence. “So I just really, absolutely, came to say nothing but that I’m sorry.” The voice paused and then went on, because of course, Potter couldn’t say just that. “And I figured out how to get out of the contract, and I wanted to tell you how, because all you have to do is--okay, right. I’m just--I’m just sorry. I’m going to wait right here. When you leave, if you don’t want me here, the Floo is set to pull me away. But if you do want to see me, it’ll leave me here and we can talk. All right?”   


“I can’t talk to Blaise with you there listening to everything!” That burst out of Draco without even meaning to. The more well-mannered part of himself, the part which Mother had bred into him, would have said something more genteel and soothing while remaining non-committal.    


“Oh. Sure.” Oddly enough, Potter seemed to understand that. Mother wouldn’t have been wrong—not among pure-blood society—but it was a reminder that Potter was different enough that they were playing by unfamiliar rules. Nothing in this new, postwar world was anything like he’d been brought up to expect—the panic rose again, threatening to drown him as surely as the flood in the dungeon—how could he manage in this world run by people he didn’t understand?

“I’ll, er,” Potter went on, “just put up a reverse Muffliato. So you can hear me but I can’t hear you. Because I understand. You need to talk to a friend while you calm down.” Potter’s voice rose a little, turning harder. “Because you are a friend, right, Zabini? You’re not going to force Draco to… you know. Honor the contract.” 

“I promise you, Potter, I won’t,” Blaise said. “Draco is my friend and I take that far more seriously than my insouciant, placidly handsome exterior would suggest. Understand?’   


“Yes,” answered Potter. “I mean, no, but I understand that you won’t, er, molest Draco, I mean, do anything he doesn’t want.” That trailed off, as if Potter was painfully contemplating what Draco might actually want.   


Which was simple. He wanted his father out of Azkaban. And he wanted Harry too. 

“Can you see,” Draco said to Blaise, as the muffled sensation settled over them, indicating Potter had cast the privacy spell, “how I can get what I need? I mean, my father and Harry too? How do I do that?”

Blaise drew in a deep breath that managed to sound skeptical even as he drew it into his lungs. “Let’s see what the equations show.”

Draco nodded jerkily, panic now transmuted into tense anticipation. There had to be a way.    


Blaise gestured at the wall. The board cleared, seeming to gather itself for a moment before changing from whatever Blaise had been asking into Draco’s new question. Then the equations returned, with a large X in an embarrassing hot pink that in no way represented Draco’s inner essence. A cool green fiery Y appeared next to it which Draco instinctually recognized as representing his father. Then a P joined them, in a deep maroon which Draco resented for being a far, far more restrained shade than his own, but that clearly indicated Potter.    


“How does this work?” Draco asked.   


Blaise didn’t answer, or at least not verbally. The equations were his answer, it seemed. He spoke in Latin, commanding them to reveal their secrets, and X and Y and P all scurried to answer, forming themselves into a line which tried to end in formula which equaled two.   


_ Two _ . Draco plus Potter. Draco plus Harry. An inscription which he had absolutely never scribbled into the margins of his notes in the doldrums that was History of Magic, that he’d never had to cross out just as Pansy’s knowing smirk swept across his page. He was ridiculous. He was hopeless, up here in the Arithmancy Tower which was the same height and construction as the Astronomy Tower which starred night after night in his screamingly horrible dreams. 

He didn’t deserve this. Happiness was for good people. Harry deserved a princess in a tower, not a failed boy-villain with scars on his chest, a mark on his arm, and a chin that was far too pointy to contain a heroic cleft.

Blaise hummed as he worked. The letters danced as if to music Draco couldn’t hear and he longed, again, for a talent like Blaise’s. Maybe he could have found solace in some remarkable ability in the war years, if he’d had one. Well, one other than fixing failed charms like the one he’d repaired on the Vanishing Cabinet.

The equations, as if they heard the ebb and flow of the guilt-tide inside his head, popped like bubbles in the surf. Harry’s P kissed Draco’s X every chance it got, cuddling up in equation after equation, following it to the asymptotic limit, chasing it down topographical sinkholes, hauling it out of impossible, unsolvable places. The Y—his Father’s coolly burning Y—that was the problem. Every time his X reached for Y, pulling it from under the axis of the graph back into the cool air that was the upper chart, the P reacted. It flew away. It hid past the limit, it soared above the measurable levels of the graph.    


Blaise shifted to topography—he muttered that underneath his breath—but Draco didn’t need a detailed explanation to understand the results. X and P built houses together, solid structures that bore the weight of any amount of other numbers. They made whole stable cities where numbers scurried and played and danced themselves into new heights.    


But not if Y were there. Y made X and P’s houses burn with its own cool light until, entirely consumed, they disappeared.    


“Father? And Harry?” Draco found that he had sat down on the floor again, his legs unwilling to hold him any longer. “I can’t have both?”   


Blaise frowned.   


“Please, please,” Draco begged. “Try again? For me?”   


Something flashed silver at the edge of Draco’s vision. He turned and saw that a Patronus in the shape of a stag had crept into the room. It nuzzled against Draco, warmer than silver light had any right to be. It was much smaller than a real stag, though, and it wanted nothing more than to crawl into Draco’s lap.   


“You’re too big to cuddle,” Draco whispered to the stag as they both watched Blaise, but it shrank itself further until it was no bigger than a crup. As small as Harry was probably feeling right now. Yet its silver glow grew brighter as it settled in Draco’s lap. He stroked it and who would have thought that the projection of Harry’s happiness could ever feel so warm? It looked as if it would be strong and cool and it ought to repel anything Dark, like Dementors ( _Like Draco,_ a voice whispered inside him). But the stag nudged at his hands and made him stroke it from nape to tail, and behind the ears, and under the neck, and along the nose.    


“Draco. Love.” Blaise turned to him, a sigh undrawn on his face. He gazed from Draco to the Patronus and back again. “There’s nothing,” he said. “No equation where you can have both Potter and your father.” He gestured to the wall. “That’s the best that’s possible.”   


Draco looked at the tangled equation Blaise had indicated. “What does that mean?” He meant his voice to be strong, like the natural leader he’d supposedly been raised to be, but it came out more like a whisper.    


“You can free your father, Draco.” Blaise closed his eyes. “I can see what they’re doing to him—the werewolf—”   


“Don’t!” Draco raised his hand. He didn’t want to see it played out on the wall, like it was playing itself out behind his eyes. Father, terrified, pressed into the corner, trying to hold himself upright on shaking legs with the slightest slip meaning a descent into becoming an animal.    


“But your best course of action according to the equations,” Blaise continued,  “is to tell Potter about Dawlish right away.”   


“And then what happens to my father?” Draco didn’t really need to ask. His father’s Y—and hadn’t he always been “why” to Draco—why are your grades less than that mudblood Granger, why did you lose the Snitch to Potter once again—why can’t you torture and kill when you’re told to—   


“Potter will stop what Dawlish is doing. But Lucius will have to serve out the rest of his sentence.”   


“No, no, no,” Draco clutched the stag and it looked up at him, misty eyes concerned, leaning against him warm and caring. “Someone else will get to him. He’ll never be safe in there.”   


Blaise sighed. He gestured at the wall. “I want you to have all of the truth. You  _ can _ free him. But that doesn’t mean I think it’s what you should do.”   


Draco stared at the painfully bright equation. “What does that mean?”   


Blaise rubbed his head, in that way he did before he gave you the answer to the essay question you couldn’t answer, even though he thought you should figure it out for yourself. “You can get your father out of prison, but if you do, someone you love will never speak to you again. That’s what it means.”   


Oh. Was that all. Draco hugged the stag so hard that if it had been flesh and blood it would have cried out. Patronuses, though, didn’t seem to mind. It just pulsed warmly underneath his fingers, reminding him of how Harry felt when they were tight in each other's embrace, late at night, alone, under the covers. He would lose that if he did the right thing by his family. If he did what any decent human being would do. And he would do it. He had to save his father. Why would Harry even want a man who would let his own father rot in Azkaban for the sake of carnal love?

_Not just carnal,_ his heart meanly reminded him. But that didn’t matter. He was a Malfoy, he would always be a Malfoy, and the baggage that came with that was his to shoulder. It had been foolish to hope, even for a few days, that it could ever be otherwise. 

“Tell me how,” Draco said--painfully, reluctantly, necessarily, as he pushed the stag off his lap--“to get my father out of Azkaban.”

“I don’t know exactly,” Blaise said, frowning at the wall, “but the first step is clear. You’ll have to get what Dawlish wants. The equations say that’s the only way.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be posted on Saturday, June 16. Be sure to stay tuned, as we'll be getting back to some action deserving of our "explicit" rating, we promise! 
> 
> We've finally got a tumblr account, so come say hi! The ask box is open at [@lefthanded-basilisk](https://lefthanded-basilisk.tumblr.com). 
> 
> As always, thank you for your comments, kudos and recs--they keep us going and we appreciate each one so much.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With big thanks to Maesterchill for the beta!

  
  
  


Draco left the Arithmancy Equation Room looking far more steady than when he had staggered in. It was a lie of course, he realized as he watched Potter scramble to his feet in the anteroom, hope alight on his face. Draco was actually feeling far, far worse. But there was nothing for it. Blaise had run all the equations and it was a scientific fact that Draco couldn’t have both his father and Potter.         

“I’ll catch you later, old man,” Blaise said, giving him a look as he left which probably meant _don’t screw this up, even though I know you will, but I’ll still be your friend, you fucking idiot._

Resentment surged in Draco’s heart as Blaise closed the door behind him. What did Blaise really understand about fathers? He’d had, what ten of them already? Fathers were like the Knight Bus to him—there was always one pulling up whenever his mother raised her wand.

“Are you all right?” Potter asked, pulling him close. He ran a hand down Draco’s spine, slowly, as if he enjoyed the feel of each delicate bone underneath his fingers.

Draco luxuriated in his touch for a long moment. No, he was not all right. And he would be very, very much worse once Potter stopped speaking to him forever. Draco hoped to hell that day wasn’t today. Because the feel of Potter against him, the warmth, the love, the sheer fucking eroticism of his male body, the hopeful surge of a thickening cock in Potter’s joggers—was so very much more than all right. It was perfect.

So he pushed Potter away. 

“Draco?” Potter’s gaze was soft and warm and as green as the garden in morning’s first light.

“You,” Draco said, putting his forefinger to Potter’s chest in a way that was part poke and part caress, “are a fucking idiot.” 

Maybe if he could remind himself how wrong Potter was for him this would be easier.

Potter’s eyes widened, pupils dilating, bringing black to the green. “Yeah?” he said, with that oh-so-cogent intellectualism he brought to absolutely every fight they had ever had.

“ _‘Yeah,’_ by which I mean yes, which is how people who actually speak the English language acknowledge the affirmative.” Draco pushed forward, steering Potter back towards the wall with the authority of his unwavering index finger. “You are a complete incompetent at this.” He waved his hand between their bodies to indicate what ‘this’ was. “ _Petrificus Totalis_? Lighting me on fire? Setting snakes on me? Is that how Gryffindors say _‘I want you’_? Because in the rest of the world, flowers and candy are preferred.” 

Snarking at Potter put him back in familiar terrain, and that made him feel a bit better. But instead of insulting Draco back like he was supposed to, Potter didn’t rise to the bait at all. “I was trying to tell you the contract isn’t really enforceable,” he said. “You can stop any time. All you have to do is--”

“That may have been what you were _trying_ to do,” Draco interrupted, because he really didn’t want to get into the inanities of the Gryffindor cocksucking contract right now. “But what you _actually_ ended up doing was making me relive several near-death experiences in quick succession. If I had any sense, Potter, I’d hex your arse into oblivion right now.” 

“I’m sorry,” Potter repeated. He shook his messy head and gazed at Draco with such a look in his eyes. A burning softness. A fierce gentleness. This, when an hour before, he’d been hexing Draco with fire and snakes. The power of Potter’s magic fairly shimmered around him, yet Draco had the feeling Potter was trying very hard to hold himself in check, as if Draco were a frightened animal that might bolt again. 

Well, Draco was a frightened animal. An animal that had done terrible things. And was about to do more of them. The weight of the whole miserable situation settled heavily back around him. 

_If_ you _had any sense, Harry, you’d walk away from me forever right now._

Potter slid his hands around Draco’s waist and drew him closer. And then Draco couldn’t help it: he laid his head on Potter’s shoulder. Just for a moment, he told himself. But then Potter began kissing Draco’s forehead. Then his hair and the tops of his ears. Soft, nuzzling kisses like the way Potter’s Patronus had nuzzled his hand in the Equation Room. 

“Merlin,” Potter breathed in Draco’s ear. “We fight so much. We always have. But right now let’s do this instead.” He wrapped his hands around Draco’s arse, pulling their bodies close together, and rolled his hips, pressing his cock against Draco’s, letting Draco feel that he was half-hard. 

Draco knew perfectly well that the ‘this’ Potter wanted to do would only make them both hurt worse afterwards but he couldn’t make himself pull away. Instead he gripped Potter by his fucked-up hair and kissed him rough and desperate, each kiss sending another surge of arousal through him until his cock was ached with need. 

God, _Potter_. Draco could feel Potter’s magic brushing against his, asking to be let in. He felt his own magic open in response, a trembling stretch inside him that left him full of empty spaces where Potter’s magic could enter. When it did, Draco gasped at the influx of power. It was like a double shot of firewhiskey inside him, intoxicating and burning and so bloody _good._ Draco kissed Potter harder, the stubble on Potter’s upper lip scraping his mouth, his cheeks, his jaw. Draco wanted to rub his face in it until he was chafed and burned all over.  Potter wanted _him_.

And now Potter’s hand was moving between their bodies, fumbling at the button on Draco’s trousers. “Not here in the anteroom,” Draco panted, stepping back. “Anyone could Floo in.” 

“I’ll lock the Floo.” 

“You can’t, you git.” Students couldn’t lock Floos; didn’t Potter know anything? On the other hand, if any student could get around McGonagall’s Floo wards, it was probably this arsehole here. It wasn’t an argument worth having, in any case, especially not when Potter was palming Draco through his clothes. 

“In the Equation Room, then,” Potter said. “I know we can lock that, seeing as I just did.”  

They went in. Draco had a moment of panic when he realized that Blaise’s equations still covered the walls. Could Potter read them? “Take off your glasses,” he said, pulling Potter to him to make it look like a simple matter of the glasses being in the way of their snogging. Which was true. Potter stashed them in his pocket and then his face was closer, the kisses more intense without the need to navigate the wire frames. Potter’s nose, soft and firm against his cheekbone; Potter’s eyelashes, fluttering against Draco’s skin. Draco felt his magic tighten around Potter’s, digging itself in and not ever wanting to let go. 

“Christ, Draco.” Potter laughed, not unkindly, but he’d sensed Draco’s magic trying to hold him.  Draco flushed, feeling exposed, and tried to tamp it down. But then Potter was reaching between their bodies, undoing Draco’s flies with clumsy, eager fingers, and then his hand was curling around Draco’s cock. Potter’s wand hand--Draco could feel the pulse of magic thrumming in it. He gripped Potter’s shoulders, suddenly dizzy with the force. 

Potter’s other hand found Draco’s bare arse and squeezed. “Let me in,” Potter growled softly against his mouth. “Come on, Malfoy.  _Draco_.” 

_Fuck_. It was Potter saying his name that did it. Whatever bit of himself Draco had managed to hold back gave way and then his tongue was inside Potter’s mouth, and his magic was inside Potter’s magic. Potter was stroking him, working Draco’s cock and kneading his arse and his magic was enveloping Draco and it was _everything_. 

He fumbled at Potter’s joggers, trying to reestablish the balance between them, or trying to unbalance Potter as well. He got the waistband down and Potter’s fat prick arched into Draco’s hand. 

“Fuck, Draco. I want to feel all of you.” Potter broke his hold on Draco’s arse to pull at his shirt-tails. “Take this off. I want to feel your skin on my skin. Come on.” 

Draco’s hands shook as he undid the buttons. He turned away to take it off, reflexively hiding his Mark and the Sectumsempra scars even though Potter had seen them the other night. Potter’s hands slid down his back, asking him to turn around again.

“No,” Draco said. “We’ll do it like this.” He leaned back into Potter, feeling the hard heat of Potter’s cock against his crack, the bulge of Potter’s quads against the backs of his thighs. He didn’t want Potter to see his face, how messed up he was, and he really didn’t want Potter to see him cry again, which he might do at any moment, the heat of tears threatening to rise up from his chest and spill down his cheeks again.

“We can do it any way you want,” Potter growled in his ear. He sucked Draco’s earlobe into his mouth and bit, almost-but-not-quite too hard. Draco heard himself moan, the sensation a shiver in his skull. Potter’s arms went around him, his hand finding Draco’s cock again, the other reaching up to press against his chest. Right over the scars he’d made, right over Draco’s heart. He rocked into Draco’s cleft, the tip of his cock pressing against the base of Draco’s spine.

And Potter’s mouth, soft and hot at Draco’s ear again: “Show me how to wank you.”

Draco moved his hand to the base of his cock, just below Potter’s. “A little slower,” he said, another flare of heat pinking his cheeks at the exposure of saying what he wanted Potter to do to him. “I want to last.” 

_I want_ this _to last. I don’t ever want to stop._

“Last night,” Potter said, grinding his cock against Draco’s arse, “when I watched you wank.” He pulled Draco close against him, his chest hot against Draco’s back, and Draco felt his heart thundering beneath Potter’s palm. “With my finger in your arse,” Potter went on, the words a light breath in Draco’s hair. “It was so hot. You’re so fucking hot, Malfoy.” He rolled his hips, working the length of his prick deeper in between Draco’s arse cheeks. 

_Call me Draco again,_ Draco wanted to say, and didn’t. It seemed childish yet he wanted that as much as he wanted Potter holding him, wanking him. “Potter--” 

“Yeah. Fuck, I’m so hot for you.”

Potter gripped him a little tighter in his enthusiasm, and Draco felt the beginnings of his orgasm tighten inside him. He groaned, his hips bucking forward, his cock about to burst in Potter’s hand.

“Yeah, just like that, Malfoy?” Potter was working his own hips now, frotting against him as he wanked Draco. “That how you like it?”

“Oh God. Just-- _Harry_ \--” Everything went taut inside him, stretched to near breaking.   

“Fuck, yeah. I’m gonna make you come. Come for me, Draco.”  

Draco did, his whole body clutching and trembling. He spurted over Harry’s hand, deep moans wrenched from his chest as his body released. Everything was forcing its way out: his orgasm, his terror, his longing, his tears, and his shame. 

And Harry was holding him through it, holding him and fucking up against his arse.

“Come on,” he urged. “Give it to me--fuck, I’m so close, so fucking good.” 

Draco pulsed a final time and staggered back against him and Harry came with a low groan of pleasure, the heat of his spunk sudden and wet in the small of Draco’s back.  

Harry held him close. “So fucking sweet,” he said, and Draco nearly laughed out loud. Of all the things he’d ever been called, “sweet” certainly wasn’t one of them. Not even by Pansy.

“You daft idiot,” Draco said. He wiped his face on his arm and turned to face Harry at last.   

“ _Your_ daft idiot.” Harry reached up and pushed Draco’s sweaty hair from his forehead. There was spunk on his thumb and Draco felt his legs give way just in time to slide down the wall and sit, rather than fall over. Potter sat down beside him. 

“Better?” he asked. 

“Better than being hexed by you, you mean? Marginally.”  

“How wide a margin?” Harry’s soft, post-orgasm face shifted into one of its most infuriating Potterish expressions, the one exclusively reserved for baiting Draco. 

“As wide as the gap between ‘good sense’ and ‘Gryffindor’?” Draco raised an eyebrow. “As wide as the gap between, say, knocking on a door and nearly knocking someone out?”

Harry flushed. “I just wanted to tell you how to get out of the contract!” 

“You know how to get out of the _Gryffindor_ contract, you prat. You don't know a thing about the Slytherin one.”

“Shit.” Harry leaned back heavily against the wall. “I forgot your contract works differently. I am a prat. But there must be a way for you to get out of it.” 

“What do you care?”

“Because it’s wrong!” Harry looked so stormy that Draco had to resist the urge to edge away from him. He couldn’t take any more magical outbursts today. Harry seemed to realize this; he took a deep breath and closed his eyes a moment, clearly trying to calm himself before he continued. “It’s wrong,” he repeated. “It’s coercive. You shouldn’t have to do things you don’t want to do--”

“How very, very Gryffindor you are,” Draco said bitterly. “The whole of pure-blood society is based on doing things you don’t want to do. It’s what enables the wizarding world to survive.”

“So it’s all ‘for the greater good,’ is that what you’re saying? Because that’s what Grindelwald said.” 

“Merlin, Potter--Harry. I entered into the Slytherin contract because it’s a business deal. It’s for _my_ greater good. I’m getting something in return.” 

“What?” 

“I tried to explain it to you before, that day you found me in the garden. In exchange for sucking the others off, they’ll give me favors.” 

“What do you mean, ‘favors’?” 

Draco hesitated. Should he tell Harry about needing to get Father out of prison? Images of the werewolf on the chain swarmed in his mind. Blaise had said that if he told Harry, Harry would get the torture stopped, but Father would have to stay in prison. And that just wasn’t enough--he needed his father freed, reunited with his mother again. He needed to do the right thing for once, and he needed to do it himself. Which meant he needed to get the grimoire key Dawlish had asked for. 

The hopelessness of the task settled inside him like a lead weight. He could never ask Harry for help. Harry hated Lucius Malfoy--he’d probably stop speaking to Draco this instant if he knew what Draco wanted to do. If Blaise didn’t understand, there was no way Harry would: Harry had even less experience with fathers than Blaise. 

“What kind of favors?” Harry prodded. 

Stubborn git. Harry was like a crup with a bone: once he’d got hold of something, he wouldn’t give it up until he was done with it. “Even you must have some apprehension of the fact that the rest of my life isn’t going to be easy,” Draco said. “Our family assets are frozen. I’m barred from entering my own home. My mother’s under house arrest at Aunt Andromeda’s while the Aurors comb through the Manor, and my father’s in Azkaban.” Draco stopped, something inside himself clenching down, trying to protect himself from the reality of what was happening to Father. The full moon was in one week. He had one week to get that key. 

“I need favors to get ahead after Hogwarts,” he finished. It wasn’t even a lie. It just wasn’t what he planned to use his contract favors for. 

“I could help you.”

Draco blinked at him, waiting for Potter’s famous ‘I love baiting Malfoy’ smirk to utterly ruin his kissable, fuckable mouth. When it didn’t, he felt oddly at sea. If they really were doing whatever it was they were doing now, this thing that involved getting off together and telling each other intimate things about their lives and calling each other by their given names--he didn’t know how to behave.

“I could,” Harry insisted. “I mean, I’m not bragging or anything, but I think it’s fair to say the Ministry owes me a few favors I could cash in on. What do you need?”

Draco tensed, his senses on high alert. Why was Harry offering to help him? Harry didn’t owe him anything. His mother had saved Harry in the forest and Draco had sort of saved him at the Manor by lying to the Snatchers. Harry had saved Draco from the Fiendfyre and again by speaking for him at his trial. They were two for two--even. Just because they were shagging now, it didn’t mean you stopped negotiating. Did it? Was that how Gryffindors did it? Which would be ridiculous, because then you’d never know where you stood with anyone. He frowned at Harry, searching his face for a clue to his motivation. 

“What do you need?” Harry asked again.

“I need to get into Malfoy Manor,” Draco blurted. And it was really, really going to be a problem if he kept spitting out truths to any berk who asked. He hoped to hell the Slytherin common room got dried out soon because he needed to get back his roots before he lost himself altogether. "There are some things I need," he added. "Things from home."

“And you could get the key,” Harry said. 

Draco stared. Was the Chosen One also a Legilimens? Fucking, fucking hell. If Harry knew even half of what went on in Draco’s mind, Draco might as well kill himself right now and save Harry the trouble of casting an Unforgivable. Not that the Chosen One wouldn’t be forgiven, of course. 

“What?” was all he found himself able to say.

“You know, the _key_ ,” Harry repeated, as if that explained everything. 

Except it did. Harry meant the silver key Voldemort had destroyed in the fire, not the brass grimoire key Dawlish wanted. Of course. Draco let his head fall back against the wall, closing his eyes against the awful plan taking root inside him. _Harry_ could get Draco into the Manor. And then Draco could find the grimoire key and tell Harry it was the key his parents had used to change him when he hit puberty. Harry wouldn’t know the difference; not at first, anyway. 

He opened his eyes and looked at Harry, who was gazing at him with such an unguarded expression of hope and anxiousness that half of Draco wanted to smack him for being so callow and the other half wanted to pull Harry close and promise that he’d never, ever hurt him. 

“Yes,” he said aloud. “That’s what I was thinking too. We should get my key.”

Harry’s face went through several different expressions in rapid succession before settling back into anxious hope once more. “And what will you do when you get it?”

“Nothing,” Draco said, and watched happiness break over Harry’s features like the sun over storm clouds. “I’ll get rid of it, even,” he went on, hoping Harry wouldn’t notice how his voice shook. “I don’t want to use it, even if I have it. I want to be with you.” 

That, at least, was true.

In one fluid movement, Harry slung his leg over both of Draco’s and dropped onto his lap in a straddle, his thighs hugging Draco’s. His hand slid back to cup the base of Draco’s skull, tipping his head up into the kiss Harry leaned in to give him. 

His mouth was warm and happy against Draco’s, his lips stretched into a grin that stayed even as he tasted Draco’s mouth, drawing his his lips between his own, flicking gently with his tongue, then pressing harder, then grinding down on Draco’s lap, his hands on Draco’s shoulders now, pulling him closer. 

Draco swallowed, trying to choke down the tightness in his throat. He would give the grimoire key to Dawlish, and somehow that would start the course of events that would lead to Father being set free. Blaise’s voice echoed in his ears, soft and a little sad: _If you use the key to free your father, someone you love will never speak to you again._ Maybe Harry wouldn’t find out right away that he’d been tricked. Maybe Draco could have him for a little while longer before the bottom dropped out of his life again. 

“I want to be with you too, Draco,” Harry said softly, breaking the kiss to smile at him with those deep green eyes, so naked and trusting that Draco had to turn his face away.

And then he saw it. New equations were spiraling out from the spot where his head rested against the charmed Equation Wall, spiraling out right before his eyes. He raised his hand and laid it on the smooth surface and watched as the equations bloomed there too.

_ P+X/P- (PX + x) px/X,  _ said the bit closest to his right thumb, but there were strings of those same letters radiating from the tips of each of his fingers where they touched the wall. 

_ -X/P+X+P+X(X)px/P!+x _

As he watched, transfixed, the equations lengthened, shifting and changing as the two letters appeared and disappeared, the equations stretching into long strings that kept repeating nonsense operations with the same two variables: 

_ PX/XP+x!(X+PX)/(P-X)p+P/X(P)-X/P+X+P+X(X)px/P!+x+p/x-(P+X) _

There was no equals sign, Draco realized. Their letters were together but there was nothing to solve for. No possible solution.

"Draco." Harry nuzzled at his temple. "I'll owl the Aurors this afternoon. I know just who to ask to pull strings." He reached out and cupped Draco's chin, gently turning Draco's face back towards Harry's waiting mouth. Draco closed his eyes, wanting to shut out everything but the kiss.  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be posted Saturday, June 23. Thanks to everyone who's reading along with us! If you're enjoying this fic, please let us know! We love to hear from you, and your comments make our day. We're on tumblr too, at [@lefthanded-basilisk](https://lefthanded-basilisk.tumblr.com).  
> See you next Saturday!


	24. Chapter 24

Harry stared up at the wrought-iron gates of Malfoy Manor, Draco at his side, gone stiff and formal. As he watched, the bars started to move, sliding one against the other in twisting patterns until they formed an angry, leering face. Through the empty eyeholes, the Manor stood visible at the end of a long gravel driveway, looking bleak, unkempt, and utterly determined to resist the cheering effect of a sunny Sunday morning. Harry shuffled his feet, suddenly wanting nothing more than to grab Draco and Apparate them away from here--but no. He clenched his fist, stopping himself for reaching out to take Draco's hand, so close beside his own. They'd come for the key and even more than Harry wanted to go, he desperately--selfishly?-- meant to get that key. How could Draco really, truly belong to Harry as long as the key was out there just waiting to be used? 

“State the password,” the bars hissed after a moment, the mouth moving, lips thinning into a pursed circle on each drawn-out  _ s _ . The sound came not from the mouth but from the bars themselves, in a coordinated chorus accompanied by the flickering of a dozen curlicued tongues.

“Oh,” Harry said, tipping his head and taking a long look at the gate. “The bars are snakes.”

At his side, Draco turned his head, slowly, and stared at him. “Yes. They are,” he said, in that tone of voice which didn’t need to add, ‘ _are you feeling particularly dim today, Potter?’_

Harry grinned. “Nothing says ‘welcome to ours’ like writhing vipers, huh?” He listened for a moment as the bars repeated their demand for the word to enter. “They’re speaking English, not Parseltongue,” he added, surprised.

Draco’s eyes widened ever more slightly, an expression stealing over his face which was as clear as if he'd spoken aloud: _yes, the dimness is epically high today_. But the assessment didn’t seem to give him the same pleasure it usually did, Harry thought. In fact, Draco's shoulders slumped a little, as if he wished Harry were better at perceiving whatever it was that was churning unspoken in Draco’s overactive brain.

“If they didn’t speak English,” Draco said finally, instead of addressing whatever was really going on inside his head, “then you would be the only person in the country they could speak to. Which wouldn’t be very convenient for anyone else who wanted to enter, like, say, the Aurors and the DMLE.”

“Oh.” Harry nudged Draco, trying to get a smile, to loosen him up a little. Was it just being back here at Malfoy Manor that was bothering him? It wasn’t affecting Harry at all to be here, which he’d thought it might, though of course ten times as many bad things had happened to him at Hogwarts and he still liked it there.  In fact, Harry thought as he scratched a stray itch on his head, he was starting to suspect that maybe, really, he just wasn’t that sensitive a person. Maybe, even, there was a reason his best friend was someone with ‘the emotional depth of a teaspoon.’ Maybe he should work on that if he wanted to get better on this whole relationship thing.

Draco was frowning at him now. “You _do_ know the password, right?”

“Yeah.” Harry had pried it out of Tonks via Floo-call, banking on the fact she was too caught up in Charlie Weasley to spend much time inquiring as to why Harry wanted to know. Anyway, she’d been more concerned with trying to avoid the twins’s wretchedly rude, though thought-provoking, questions as to whether their brother ever asked her to turn into a dragon for him at, you know, sexy times--

“So,” Draco said, gesturing impatiently.

Right. To business. “WeeWillyWidget!” Harry called out to the gate, feeling kind of stupid even though he did admire the password construction. It wasn’t as if someone was just going to randomly say those three words, all fast and stuck together, and it definitely wasn’t the kind of password a Death-eater would think of. Even if they knew it, they’d probably be too embarrassed to stand in front of a pureblood estate and yell that out, he thought with a little satisfaction as the gates creaked open. 

Draco hugged his side as they went through the gate, keeping them both to the middle, as far away from the snakes as they could be and still slip through. Oh, yeah--Harry should have thought of that, too, feeling a sudden surge of guilt about the whole  _Serpensortia_ thing yesterday. “I’m sure they can’t hurt you,” he said, starting right away on his plan to be more sensitive. “They’re not even very big, as snakes go.” 

“Those bars represent _black adders_ , Potter,” Draco hissed in a passable imitation of the gate itself, once they were safely on the other side and proceeding up the driveway. “The only venomous snake native to England. They’re every bit as poisonous as the real thing.”

Actually, Harry knew a thing or two about adders. He kicked the gravel as they walked toward the Manor. Hermione had talked about adders on their camping trip from hell last year: what they looked like, where they were likely to be, all that. He’d only listened because he’d thought it had something to do with horcruxes, to be honest--if he’d known it was just another camping safety tip, he would have tuned it out. “Anyway,” he said with the confidence of someone who has been lectured by Hermione Granger, Know-It-All Extraordinaire, “adders aren’t that dangerous, really. Their bite is painful but not fatal and they only bite when they’re really scared. Also, very few of them are even black.”

“How scholarly of you,” Draco said, giving him a funny look.

“Some of them are brown, you know. Some are even paler, like a silvery grey.” _Like your eyes,_ Harry thought and didn’t add, because it was sappy and stupid and would probably scare Draco off. He reached out and took Draco’s hand, finding it cold beneath his fingers. “Are adders, er, like your family’s symbol? Or something?”

“Snakes are a symbol of betrayal. The snake in the grass. The serpent at your bosom. _Mal foi_ , Potter. That’s French for _bad faith_. Of course they’re the symbol of my house. What else would better represent my family?” 

Harry squeezed Draco’s hand instead of answering. The warmth was returning, but with it came the thudding feel of Draco’s pulse, which seemed to be hammering along at far too fast a pace. “Adders are a protected species now, did you know that? There are so few of them left that it’s illegal to hurt them.” 

That got Harry a wry eyebrow lift from Draco, but it was at least a step up from the raw misery he’d seemed to be descending into. Harry awarded himself one boyfriend point for that. “Come on,” he said, leading the way up the steps to a front door that was already opening to them, “let’s get inside and find what we came for.”

Draco nodded and followed him into the foyer, a large, empty space with an impressively curved staircase leading to a balcony. Where a fine rug had presumably once laid, the foyer floor was now bare and their steps echoed, the door adding a resounding bang as it closed magically behind them.

“No house elves?” Harry asked, looking around, though of course he could see for himself that none had appeared.

Draco shook his head no. “The Aurors sent them all off.” He shrugged. “Worried they were still loyal to my family, I’m sure. Which they were--well, at least to my mother. They all followed her off to Aunt Andromeda’s apparently, and are quite refusing to leave.”

Harry snorted. “Tonks mentioned something about that. She said they’re hanging about over at her mum’s little place, making pointed remarks about how useful they could be if only she and Charlie would get down to business—or whatever phrase house elves use for that—and make a nice fat mess of babies for them to look after.”

Draco laughed, seemingly in spite of himself, and made a face. “I don’t know what phrase house elves use for that and I don’t want to know.”

He’d made Draco laugh—that had to be two points to Harry, right? Harry swelled a little with pride. This was going better already.

“So,” Draco said, addressing his feet more than Harry. “Should we go and get—”

“Is there anything else you want to get while you’re here?” Harry broke in, determined to up his score even more. He’d be practically at ‘normally perceptive human being’ by the time they got back to Hogwarts, if he kept this up. “I mean, besides the… the sexuality key. I saw your trunk and there’s not much in it. They didn’t let you bring much, did they? So, as long as you’re here, is there anything else you want?”

Draco looked startled, as if surprised Harry would have noticed that. “Yes. Of course there is. I’d love to get my old Potions book while we’re here. It’s got all my notes from years of studying.”

“Why wouldn’t they let you take your own Hogwarts notebook?” Righteous anger on Draco’s behalf shot through Harry. “Something like that shouldn’t have been held back.”

Draco shrugged. “If it’s written in a Malfoy’s handwriting, it’s automatically dark until proven otherwise.” He really didn’t seem upset. Just matter-of-fact. Maybe once you’d faced Fiendfyre, social burns hurt less? “It’ll be approved eventually, I suppose, but it’s low priority. It could take a year before they get around to it and I need it now.”

“Of course you do!” A side of guilt added to Harry’s righteous indignation. He’d gotten away with using the Half-Blood Prince’s book but Draco couldn’t even have his own notes? “How are you going to ace your Potions N.E.W.T without it? They’re insisting on good grades as part of your probation, not to mention needing a near perfect score if you want to land a spot in a Potions mastery course and that’s always been your favorite subject—”

Draco looked like he was about to cry and god, didn’t Harry know all too well what that looked like, as a sudden sense memory of a too humid bathroom, Myrtle crying, Malfoy bleeding, the water turning red—

“You've thought about that?” Draco’s voice brought him back. “About how they demand something then make it nearly impossible for me to do it? You thought about what I might want to do after Hogwarts and how hard it’s going to be for me to get a spot unless I do everything perfectly?” Draco’s throat looked as if it had gone so tight it must hurt to swallow. “I can’t do this,” he said, back to abject misery, but speaking more to himself than Harry, it seemed. “I can’t make this choice. It’s not fair. It’s not right.”

“Choice?” Harry repeated stupidly. “What choice?”

“Nothing,” Draco said, turning immediately to lead the way down the wide hallway.

“No, what did you mean by that?” A sudden horrible thought hit Harry and he crowded close on Draco’s heels. “Do you mean you haven’t decided what to do when you get the key? You mean, you’re thinking of using it to change back?” _You might choose to leave me,_ he left unspoken, because it sounded pathetic enough in his head without voicing it aloud. “I thought you wanted to get it to prove it was serious between us, that you wanted this to last but if you haven’t even decided—” 

Draco stopped. Harry bumped into his back, steadying himself with a hand on Draco’s side. They’d stood just like this in the equation lab, yesterday, just before Draco had begged Harry to bring him here. Harry’s cock, stupidly, Pavlov-like, began to swell at the memory, at the feel of Draco pressed against him.

Draco leaned back against him, hard enough that if Harry stepped away, he’d fall. “I’m not going to leave you. I promise you that. If anyone leaves, it’ll be you.”

“Well, I’m not going to leave you either,” Harry said, feeling mulish. “So why are you talking about a choice?”

“I was just thinking maybe we should get my notebook and leave. Forget about the key altogether.” Draco’s fingers stroked over his hand, light, almost nervous-feeling.

“No.” Harry felt his boyfriend points evaporating, but fuck. He pushed Draco until he was standing on his own two feet again, and stepped back. He couldn’t live with this hanging over him. “Let’s get the key. Now.”

“Fine.” Draco shivered but started moving again, leading them down another hall, then along another, taking them past doors both closed and open, the whole place radiating a kind of desolate emptiness.

Did the house itself suffer at the absence of the family—was this a lonely sensation Harry felt coming from the floorboards, seeping out of the walls? Or did it have to do with the way Draco was now moving ahead of him, arms tight at his sides as if afraid Harry would try to take his hand again?

Draco took them down an older, narrower hallway then through a maze of corridors which ended finally in a rounded room. It was the base of a tower, Harry would guess, with probably a owlery at the top judging from the lingering, powdery smell of old feathers. “Your key is in here?”

Draco looked back at him, surprised. “Of course the key’s not specifically right here. Or at least, not yet. We need to call it.”

Harry bit his lip, still confused as he followed Draco down a curving, narrow stone stairwell. His hopes were rising again, though. Draco seemed determined to get the key now and surely that meant he wanted to prove his commitment to Harry. “So we’re going to—”

“The key-calling room, of course.” Draco confidently led the way to a door at the bottom of the stairs.

Oh. Of course. The key-calling room. Who didn’t have one of those? Harry rolled his eyes. Aunt Petunia had had a key bowl by the door, but of course the aristocracy had to do it differently.

Harry followed Draco into a small, round chamber, while wondering what other kinds of specialized rooms one had in mansions. Was there a toast-buttering room, which would of course be separate from your toast-making room, which would be nowhere near your toast-eating room…

Wait, Harry thought, picturing Grimmauld Place, which was technically still his, even though Remus was the real inhabitant. “Do I have a key-calling room at Grimmauld?”

“It’s  an old wizarding house, so I’m sure you do,” Draco said, a little impatiently. He headed directly for a small desk, which was empty save for a old, worn flute.

Harry made a mental note to look into that, as he peered around the room. The walls were punctuated at regular intervals with holes all the way from floor to ceiling. It gave the chamber an almost polka-dotted look, with the darkness of the holes against the relative warmth of honey-coloured stone. “What’s the matter?” he asked, dragging his gaze back from the walls to note the perturbed look on Draco’s face.

“The key-book is missing.” Draco gestured down at the desk. He’d pulled the drawers open but they were all empty. “The Aurors must have confiscated it. They couldn’t take the flute, of course, it’s tied to the room.”

“Does that mean you can’t get the key?” Suspicion reared inside Harry, sharp and ugly. Was this some kind of last minute excuse, now they were here? “Or do you really mean you don’t want to get it?”

Draco shot him an angry look. “Without the book, _Potter_ , I don’t know what tune to play to call the right key. I only know the general tune, the one that calls all of them.”

“So play that one.” Harry leaned back against the wall, feeling the holes underneath his shoulder blades, their round rough edges digging into his back. He was being an arse, he knew it, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

Draco bit his lip. “I don’t know how many keys my family has.”

More excuses, Harry knew his expression said. He crossed his arms, not saying anything.  _ Choose me, choose me, choose me,_ hissed inside his head, like he had his own personal adder stuck in there. All he wanted was for Malfoy to prove he wanted Harry. 

Draco took in Harry’s stance. His look darkened and he lifted the flute to lips. His tongue licked out, pink against the old dark wood, and his fingers found their place. He drew a breath and his chest expanded and then he was blowing into the flute on a long exhale.

It squealed, a high unpitched sound which made Harry want to stuff his fingers in his ears. Draco shuddered too and pulled off, then took another breath and without talking, tried again.

This time, the sound was true. It was not just long and low, it was tonal, a quiet, mournful cry like from a nocturnal bird you never see. Draco was settling into it, Harry could feel it in the way the music gathered, becoming lilting, literally calling. It almost made him want to move forward too, to fall at Draco’s feet—or maybe that was just the sight of the long flute, its end caressed by Draco’s lips, which tugged at him.

If the music wasn’t so lovely, Harry would interrupt. Apologize. It wasn’t important, was it? Hadn’t Draco showed already, with every kiss, that he wanted Harry? That he had no intention of leaving?

A rustling sounded within the walls. It was barely audible over the sound of the flute, but Harry stilled anyway, a weird feeling coming over him, a cross between deja vu and a sense of danger.

A pearly nose peaked out of a hole. Whiskers followed, twitching, as the nose sniffed at the air.

Though it couldn’t be a nose. And it couldn’t have sniffed. Because keys didn’t have noses and keys didn’t sniff. But, nonetheless, what was emerging from the low set hole was a key.

No, it was a rat. Harry’s mind was having trouble deciding, switching back and forth between _key_ and _rat_ as the thing crept closer, drawn by Draco’s song.

It was definitely a key, his brain finally decided, as the thing fully entered the light of the room: a key with little rat feet that sprouted from a brass key shaft, and a rat tail that dangled from the end, like a little flesh keychain.

Harry shuddered, even as the flute-music still held him in its grasp. The rat key’s face was all wrong, overly long and thin, like some kind of first-year’s transfiguration mistake, the type that McGonagall would disappear with a flick of her wand, sweeping some pincushion-cum-hedgehog out of its misshapen half-existence. This wasn’t a mistake though—it was meant to be like this, Harry was sure. The rat-key’s teeth were mismatched, some large and protruding, some recessed so far the metal mouth caved in over them, designed to fit the tumblers of some lock.

Had Flitwick gotten the idea for the keys in the chamber guarding the philosopher’s stone from this? It had seemed so novel to Harry then and he’d never wondered if there were a long history behind it of keys made partly flesh, not just winged but fleet of foot or blessed with eyes to see the lock as they were jammed inside it. But surely something which had been pulled out of Draco, something which fit into some part of his being, wouldn’t look like this? This looked more like something that could unlock something dark.

Then again, it wasn’t the key’s fault it looked like this. A rush of sympathy filled Harry. He shared a certain kinship with keys—hadn’t the wizarding world always seen him as one—the prophecy boy, the tool, the key to the Riddle? He was still swaying, Harry realized with a start, his back stinging from rubbing too hard, over and over, against the rough wall.

Harry caught Draco’s eye but Draco shook his head, slightly, while continuing to play. This wasn’t exactly the right brass rat-key, apparently, no matter that it now sat submissively at Draco’s feet. They should have discussed how to recognize the right key, Harry realized, as another key crept out of another hole. This one had a darker brass shaft and reddish teeth and it wasn’t right either, he supposed, as the music spilled onward, Draco’s breath seemingly inexhaustible, pulling Harry back into its sway.

Another sniffing nose, another whiffling, whiskery metal face, then another, this one from a higher hole, spilling over the edge and clattering to the floor before picking itself up and skittering toward Draco’s feet. Then another and another and suddenly there were noses at nearly every hole. Alarm tickled at Harry, scurrying down his spine like little clawed toes.

_I don’t know how many keys my family has,_ Draco had said. An image from an old nursery book of Dudley’s flashed into Harry’s head: the Pied Piper, playing a flute so very like the one that Draco held, with a tide of rats pouring toward him. 

Harry shook that image off as alarm flashed into outright fear, like a spark exploding. He didn’t need to see it in his head--he had it before his very eyes. Rat-keys were pouring out of every hole now, two and three at a time, squeaking and scuffling and fighting to be close to Draco and it might have been the Slytherin dorm all over again, except this time the wave was a melded mass of flesh and metal rat-skin--

Harry threw himself forward, pulling Draco out of the way. The flute fell from Draco’s hands and was lost in a moment beneath a seething mass of key-rats. The room rang with high-pitched rodent squeals, as loud or louder than the flute had been, and keys crunched beneath their feet as Harry flung them both towards the door. Draco stumbled past the threshold and Harry grabbed his hand, steadying him as together they fled upwards and away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be posted Saturday, June 30. Thanks to everyone who's reading along with us! If you're enjoying this fic, please let us know! We love to hear from you, and your comments make our day. We're on tumblr too, [@lefthanded-basilisk](https://lefthanded-basilisk.tumblr.com)  
> .
> 
> See you next Saturday!


	25. Chapter 25

Harry paused, winded from their wild run through the Manor, leaning over with his hands on his knees. He looked behind them but it was safe—no rat-keys to be seen. “I think they’re gone.”

Draco panted in answer, a sound that would have been appealing in better circumstances. “They fixate on the caller for a little while,” he said between breaths, “but eventually they give up and return to their nests.”

Harry pressed his hand to his side, easing the stitch in it. Damn his lack of Quidditch this year—he should be able to run around a stupid house. On the other hand, he considered as he looked around what had to be at least the third ballroom they’d run through, that probably just went for normal houses, not Malfoy Manor. They’d gone down a corridor then up a staircase which felt miles-long and probably was, then off again down some more corridors and up more stairs, until they had to be so high up that it was higher than the Manor actually went. “What floor are we on, anyway?” He moved over to the window. The ground looked very far away. “From the outside, the house looks like three, maybe four stories, but we're much higher than that.”

Draco laughed, the sound coming out a little wheezy. “My family has lived here since the tenth century, Potter. Of course it’s more than four stories high. How could it possibly fit us all in otherwise?”

Harry leaned his head on the leaded-glass pane, confused. “What does house size have to do with how old your family is?” He looked around but at least in here it seemed comfortingly ancestor-free. “‘Rest in peace’ is just a saying. It doesn’t require a bedroom.”

Draco moved over to the wall, inspecting a still snoozing portrait of a white-blonde lady in an Elizabethan ruff. “Look—we’ve run all the way to the 1600s. I used to come here all the time.” He turned to Harry. “And of course the dead keep their own bedrooms.” He gave a little shudder. “Who would want a used bedroom? That’s, I don’t know, like wearing your ancestor’s old pants.”

“Seriously, what are you talking about?” Harry moved over to Draco, giving him a little squeeze of the hand. The tension they’d had downstairs had been left behind along with the rat-keys, thank God. Anyway, Harry had to admit he’d probably been a bit unfair. Draco had tried his best to get the key. “You don’t build a new bedroom every time you have a baby.”

Draco gave him an indulgent smile, like it was so cute to hear how the peasants lived. “Every Malfoy, by birth or marriage, receives their own bedroom—well, suite really— when they enter the family. The Manor makes space for them.” He gave a disinterested look around the ballroom, with its polished floors and gilt-edged mirrors. “Not just bedrooms of course. Typically a generation has at least three or four floors, because you’re going to want your own sitting rooms, dancing space, dining rooms, etcetera. I mean, look at this place,” he waved a hand around, “it’s so…” he seemed at a loss for words, “…historic,” he finally finished, with a face that indicated he really meant ‘out-of-date’.

“God forbid you invite people over to dance in your perfect 17th century ballroom,” Harry said dryly. “Or, you know, redecorate.”

Draco almost gasped. “You mean, destroy your ancestors’ rooms? Erase the mark they left on the Manor, scrubbing their taste away like it was a stain?”

Okay…apparently the aristocracy didn’t go in for the great British pastime of remodeling. Harry banished the too-amusing image of Draco Malfoy on Property Ladder, picking out tile for a kitchen redo. “How did you ever manage at Hogwarts then?” he asked, bemused. “There must be centuries of history in every dorm room. Every bed, come to think of it.”

Draco’s shocked look turned to pity. “Is that how they do it in Gryffindor tower? That’s terrible.” His lip curled up, as if retreating from the very idea. “Slytherin himself arranged for the dorms in the dungeon—a new dorm appears for the first years, every year, one for the girls and one for the boys. The dungeon doesn’t have endless space, of course, not like the Manor, but then again, it’s hardly like a shared dorm room needs to be preserved for posterity. The first years’ dorm forms in the space where the graduating seventh years’ dorm used to be, which is reabsorbed into the walls…”

Harry tuned out as Draco chattered on about the superior features of the Slytherin quarters, and the clearly unsanitary nature of Gryffindor Tower, especially in regards to the inevitably caked-on filth of centuries of adolescent bodies. He trailed behind Draco into a second, smaller ballroom off the main ballroom, some kind of emergency back-up ballroom, he supposed, in the event that the main ballroom was somehow unable to perform its duties…seriously, Harry didn’t know why anybody needed a room like this. A melancholy feeling was rising in his gut—how could he ever understand Draco, the person he was falling for more and more every day, when he couldn’t even understand the house he’d been raised in? When even living in the same castle their worlds had been so different?

He had to make the effort, that was what he needed to do, Harry decided as he followed Draco out of the ballroom into a sofa-intensive space which had probably been meant for the dancers to rest in. Looking at the elegant curves of the furniture, the still-exquisite golds of the fabric, he could kind of understand. Everything in here was an antique and if it had been bought by a Malfoy, it was probably expensive to begin with. You couldn’t just chuck that stuff out. You couldn’t even stuff it in an attic—think how big the attic would have to be. “Come to think of it, this reminds me of a tent I know,” he said, thinking of the World Cup and the Weasleys’s tent, pup-sized on the outside but family-sized on the inside.

Draco shot him a glance that said no tent could ever be compared to the Manor, thank you very much. He led them through into a card-playing room that was followed by a harp-playing room followed by a room that might have been for flower arranging or was maybe just a general vase-storage kind of place.

Another thought occurred to Harry as they went through a sitting room which seemed a little more cozy, more for family. “Your, er, ancestors aren’t all here too, are they? In their bedrooms? You don’t all become ghosts, do you?”

Draco laughed as he led the way forward. “No, of course not. I mean, we have a ghost or two—by the way, if you see a lady in white, run.” He rolled his eyes. “She’ll talk your ear off and she’s so dull I’d rather listen to a banshee. Come on,” he said with a hand wave, leading them down a small corridor and opening a door to a expansive, somewhat frilly in a 17th century way, bedroom. “I have someone I'd like you to meet.”

Harry entered behind Draco and looked around the room. It was empty. Very empty. Even the portrait on the wall was empty, showing nothing but a green meadow. “Er, I think we missed them.” Possibly by several centuries.

Draco didn’t seem bothered by that. What he should have been bothered by—in Harry’s considered opinion—was the disturbingly large doll laid on the bed, head on the pillow. Harry moved closer, unwillingly drawn. It was nearly life-sized, at least for a six-year-old girl, with a disturbingly realistic face sculpted into a hard wax head.

“I haven't been up here in forever. I used to come here all the time.” Draco smiled at him, a little shyly and Harry forgot everything except for how much he wanted this man. “I hope you don’t mind taking a little break from the key hunt?”

Harry grimaced—of all the things to hear just when he was feeling ready to pounce on Draco and declare his undying affection— “But we’re going to get back to it?” he asked. “You’ve got another way to find the key?” He heard the eagerness in his voice and hated himself for it.

Draco’s shy look turned shuttered. Harry hated himself a little more.

“Right. How could I possibly forget my family in a house like this? All the better that we’re here,” Draco said with a sigh, moving over to the empty portrait and knocking on its frame. “Cassiopeia can help us find the right key. She’s been here so long she knows where nearly everything lives.”

If she were the type of girl who liked horribly creepy life-sized dolls, Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to meet her. Then again, who knew what the toy situation had been in the 1600s—maybe you had to take what you could get.

“Draco,” came a high-pitched voice from the portrait. A girl had run onto the meadow, as breathless as they’d been before. “I was down in the 1800s and heard your knock. You came to visit me again!” Her voice turned reproachful. “Why have you been away so long? I missed you.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Cassie.” Draco moved toward her, regret in his voice. “It hasn’t--well, it hasn’t been good recently. I’m sorry, I became busy with school and then, well, you saw what had moved into the Manor.” His look turned inward, growing pained. “I would have loved to have someone to talk to but I didn’t want to draw attention to you.”

“Oh, yes, that was very good of you,” Cassiopeia said, skipping a little in place, smile back on her face. “Octans down on the first floor said things were quite horrible and oh, everyone knows about poor Asselus, his canvas slashed to pieces! He barely got out alive and he had to move into his son’s portrait and now they’re always squabbling.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Draco’s face. “I can imagine.” He moved forward, raising a hand to touch the portrait’s dark frame. “I need to find something, Cassie. A key, brass, with six cuts and a blunt end, emerald-studded.”

“Brass with emerald? It’s one of the bookish keys then.” Cassie hummed. “And if it’s got six cuts and is blunt, then it’s Dark.”

“Do you know where it might be?” Draco asked.

Cassie nodded. “There’s a nest of keys like that in the Librarian’s tomb. I’d try there.” She tipped her head, considering. “There’s a few down in the dungeon, too—”

Draco shuddered. “We’ll try the Librarian first.”

“You’ll need to take me, Draco. The Librarian never opens his tomb for the living and there are no paintings on his wall for me to go to.” Cassie’s smile shone bright, lips parting to reveal nice straight teeth, each one painted with a single brush-stroke. How did the portrait-makers do that, Harry wondered, how did they add details which weren’t revealed until the subject moved and spoke? Did they put that layer on first, so that for a moment or two, there was nothing on the canvas but pearly white teeth, smiling in an empty face?

Draco was nodding, yes of course. Instead of moving to the portrait to take it from the wall as Harry expected, however, he moved instead to the bed, flicking his wand and saying _Animatus_ and offering a hand up to the doll in the bed, who was swinging her hard wax legs over the edge of the bed—

Harry didn’t back away. He didn’t scream. He’d faced a basilisk, he’d faced Voldemort for God’s sake. He was not going to run at the sight of a now animated doll no matter how bloody extremely creepy it was—

“Cassie was my best friend growing up,” Draco was saying brightly.

“Not after Pansy started coming,” the doll complained and oh God, her face was clearly the face from the portrait, Harry could see as she came into the light, with the same painted lips and pearly teeth. “She didn’t like me.”

Pansy had better taste than he’d realized, Harry decided. “How?” he asked weakly, flopping a hand at Cassie, hoping it came out as genuine interest rather than barely concealed horror.

“Oh, it’s an old technique,” Draco said, tugging at a blonde curl which seemed to be made of golden horsehair, smiling at Cassie as she turned to beam up at him. “There’s a canvas rolled inside the doll so the portrait-memory can enter. And then it’s just a matter of a simple _Animatus_ if you want to play.”

“Muggles started making mourning dolls in the 1800s, so we wizards stopped,” Cassie sniffed as she skipped ahead of them.

Harry’s feeling of horror was momentarily displaced by a familiar surge of resentment at pure-blood snobbery. But then Draco caught at his arm, holding him back a moment and leaning in to whisper, “I know, I’m sorry, but don’t make a fuss, okay? Cassie was caught by Muggles and burned to death. There’s no talking to her on the subject.”

Harry’s stomach gave a jolt. “She couldn’t have been more than six,” he said, more to himself than to Draco who had run ahead after Cassie, laughing like he must have when he was no older than she would always be. What must it have been like to grow up here, where the past was your actual companion? And wasn’t it just like Lucius to make sure Draco played with a girl who had every reason to hate and fear the outside world?

Harry stayed a few feet behind them as they wended their way back downstairs, not quite able to bring himself to walk with Draco and the scary monster-doll…no, don’t think of her that way, she’s just a long-dead girl…now embodied in hard wax…no, don’t think of her that way either— _Cassie_ , Harry told himself. Just think of her by her name, not her current circumstances.

Anyway, he couldn’t have walked beside them. The corridors they were moving through were narrower, more intimate, the width that seemed to mark the family hallways rather than the more public entertaining spaces, and there was only room for Draco and Cassie to walk abreast. Especially given the way they were jokingly pushing at each other like Draco had reverted back to being six years old too. And now they were nudging at each other, whispering to each other, Cassie tugging at his arm until he bent his head down so she could whisper something else in Draco’s ear—

Harry gave an involuntary shudder. When he’d died in the Forbidden Forest during the Battle of Hogwarts, if he’d chosen to pass on, as Dumbledore had put it, would someone have made a doll that looked like him and stuffed a painting of him inside it? Would Ron and Hermione want to visit with his wax double pretending it was really him? He looked down the hall at Draco and Cassie chatting away as they walked. There was something deeply wrong about it, and the fact that Draco didn’t seem to feel that way at all made it even worse. Was it even right to make a portrait of someone who had died young and yearning, capturing that grief and fear forever in paint?

They had gone down one final flight of stairs, ending in a hallway where the portraits wore robes that were utterly wizarding in design and yet still somehow screamed Victorian. Maybe it was the generally air of stuffiness: collars buttoned tight and high, the excessively ruffled robes, or the monocle on one particularly irritated-looking geezer who sneered wordlessly down at Harry. Maybe it was the distance they’d come down, about halfway back to the first floor which equated to about two centuries in Malfoy generation time, Harry guessed. Or maybe it was the newspaper the mutton-chopped old wizard in the portrait next to him was holding, dated November 1855.

He followed Draco and Cassie up to a pair of doors that opened to a dark, high-ceilinged library. Bookshelves stretched almost as far as he could see, almost meeting in the distance in some kind of optical illusion, or maybe some kind of library magic that would make Hermione’s toes curl with pleasure.

“Watch the floor,” Draco called over his shoulder. His wand was out, moving in a pattern Harry would have sworn was a floor-sweeping spell. Ron had done one just like it whenever Molly’s steps sounded on the stairs heading towards his room—a flick and a swish and a special mad twirl and all the dirty clothes and general mess would sweep neatly out of sight.

Harry looked down just before he followed. Sure enough, Draco was clearing a path for them through— “Guano? Is that bat shit?”

“Of course,” Cassie said, turning back and giving him a smile, which he really wished she wouldn’t do. She pointed upwards. “From the bats.”

Harry looked up. God. The ceiling wasn't dark as a decorating choice. It was dark from the hundreds—thousands—of dark little bodies clinging upside down to it in a moving, rustling, squeaking mass—

“Don’t worry, Potter.” Draco’s face had turned amused. “They’re just common pipistrelle bats, tiny little things no more than an inch or two long.“

“What do you mean, don’t worry?” Harry resisted the urge to preemptively cover his hair. “You’re not the one with a head of hair that literally everyone ever has told me looks like a bird’s nest. What if it looks like a bat’s nest too? A nice, tempting black-hatched, raise-a-family-of-little-baby-bats-in kind of place—”

Draco laughed. “Anyway, they don’t start swooping around until twilight.” A gleaming white marble trail was snaking out ahead of him, like some kind of yellow brick road through a sea of shite. Gloopy bat literal shite.

“How do they know when it’s twilight?” Harry tentatively began to follow Draco and Cassie along the path, because looking like a scared ninny in front of Draco was worse than having bats in his hair. Barely. Honestly, he thought as they strode down the room, with Draco their Moses parting the bat shite seas, even Ron’s room had never gotten this bad.

Draco looked over is shoulder, mouth opening to answer.

“Wait, no, never mind, I don’t care how they know as long as they know it’s not twilight.” Harry stayed as close behind them as he was willing to get to Wax Girl, while mindful of the fact that the guano might start oozing back onto the path if he waited too long. “Let’s move on to the more pertinent question here, which is why are there bats in your library?”

“It’s traditional.” Draco was now leading the way to a small door set in the gap between two bookcases. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Potter. This isn’t some Pureblood thing. Even the old Muggle libraries on the continent used to keep bats—they eat the insects that destroy books. Countless priceless collections have been preserved by this lovely species of bat.”

Cassie sniffed. “The house elves used to keep the floor in here gleaming.”

Draco opened the door and Harry followed the pair of them into a surprisingly normal-looking bedroom, at least as Malfoy Manor bedrooms went. First there was a spacious sitting area, done in browns and creams, with a pair of armchairs around a long-dead fire, then in the next room was the bedchamber itself.

Harry peered past the bed-curtains first thing. Good. No librarian-sized dolls there. Just an empty bed, neatly made, with a few long-unused looking pillows. “Where’s the librarian, then?” he asked, looking for a portrait or something like that on the wall.

Cassie plumped down on the bed. “In here, of course.”

Harry was starting to realize that any answer which contained an ‘of course’ was something that he would never have heard of before, even if he had listened to every single word which had fallen from the lips of Professor Binns, which he hadn’t. “I’m starting to think they should have taught Pureblood Studies right along with Muggle Studies. Make everyone take both, no excuses.”

Draco stared at him, a hint of quiver in his lips. “Honestly? You’d support that?” He laughed a little bitterly. “My father would hate it, of course. To the very hard line it would smack of surrender, because of course no one should be at Hogwarts who didn’t already know everything a proper Pureblood should.”

“What do you think?” Harry asked, moving to stand beside Draco at the foot of the bed, close enough to feel the heat of his body, but not quite close enough to touch. “Do you think it would be a good idea?”

“I think it would be a very good idea. There’s so much misunderstanding. So much of a gulf that we haven’t even tried to bridge. The more reasonable faction of the Old Guard would be relieved that the Saviour is thinking of them at all. It would go a long way toward allaying fear in the old families if the things they know were officially deemed worth teaching.” Draco laughed, a suddenly open sound. “I don’t know if you’re a fool or a genius—half the Wizengamot will love you and half will hate you, which is probably normal for you, just this time you’ll have switched which half is which.”

Harry laughed too, his discomfort at the surroundings suddenly eased by picturing Kingsley’s face if the first item of business Harry brought up in their next meeting was that. Then again, Kingsley was smart and favored consensus over crushing the opposition—he’d probably love it.

“I didn’t get to go to Hogwarts,” Cassie piped up. “They killed me before I could go.”

Harry stepped back from Draco, feeling almost ashamed to be thinking of life and love and the future in front of a girl who had been burned alive without ever having any of those things. “So, the Librarian knows where the key is?” he asked, determined to refocus this expedition so they could end it as quickly as possible.

“The key is with the Librarian.” Draco gestured awkwardly at the bed. “Cassie’s got the Librarian’s attention. She was right—the key we need is one of the ones which nests with him. He’s going to let me open his tomb and get the key.”

Harry nodded. He wanted the fuck out of here, that was what he really wanted right now. To grab Draco’s arm Apparate them both the hell out of this house of death and never come back.

Draco’s wand was moving already, though. The bedclothes peeled smoothly off the bed, stacking themselves neatly on a chest of drawers. Then the mattress was moving too, sliding off the bed to stand against the wall, taking its bed skirts with it. Harry was too confused, too unwillingly interested in what exactly was happening to pull them away now. Cassie was bouncing up and down in place, excited, hands clapping as the base of the bed was revealed.

“You said the key was in the Librarian’s tomb.” Harry stared at the rectangular stone base that removing the mattress and bedclothes had covered. “His tomb is right here. Under his bed. He’s buried in there.”

“Of course,” Draco said and Harry wanted to hold up a hand and fend off this new of course because he wasn’t going to like it and pureblood Studies was a stupid idea because all of this stuff was better forgotten, not talked about and certainly not continued.

“Harry?” Draco repeated, voice rising in distress in a way Harry suspected Draco would hate if he really heard himself. He sounded younger that way, more like Cassie and less like the person who had lived through a war and kept on going.

“You sleep on top of your tombs. It’s not just the Librarian, is it?” Harry’s urge to save Draco from this sick, past-obsessed place had risen ten-fold. “That’s why every Malfoy needs their own bedroom. That’s where you’re going to be buried. It’s not really a Manor. It’s a mausoleum.”

Draco was looking a little scared again and Harry willed himself to calm down. He wasn’t mad at Draco, God knows, or even at Cassie, or at anyone maybe except for the sheer weight of history which had been built here, stacked floor upon floor until it inevitably crushed the living.

But the top of the tomb was swinging open, swiveling outward neatly on some kind of unseen magic fulcrum. Harry didn’t want to see but he couldn’t stop it—inside was a pile of bones, flesh thankfully gone.

“There it is,” Cassie squealed. “The nest.” Looking to Draco for approval, she leaned into the tomb, reaching a hard wax hand inside. Rat-keys stirred, tails lashing, spilling out of the tatty rags inside the rib-cage. Brass bodies flashed in the light as they scattered.

“That’s the one,” Draco called out as a toothy long-bodied rat with a green stone embedded in its forehead burst over the lid of the tomb. He grabbed for it but it slipped through his fingers.

Harry’s aim was sharper, more true. The Seeker in him had it. The smart, sensible voice inside himself said to let it go. That nothing good would come of taking anything out of this house but Draco himself. But the Seeker won. Hadn’t it always? The rat-key scratched him but he closed on it anyway, ignoring the long raised mark that appeared on the back of his hand. Wordlessly, wandlessly, he hurt the rat right back, smacking it with _Stupefy_.

He held it up, proud, for Draco to see. Draco’s smile was obviously forced, maybe because Harry had once again beaten him at a Seeker’s game? It didn’t really matter—now Draco was transfiguring an old vase into a lidded jar.

Harry dropped the key inside and Draco flicked the lid shut, snicking it tight. No more wondering, no more second guessing. The key was caught.

“Now that you’ve got your key, let’s play a game!” Cassie jumped off the bed and grabbed Draco’s hand in hers, then turned to Harry and reached for his hand as well, her blue eyes wide and expectant. But when she saw how he shrank from her, her hand stopped mid-air.

Harry looked at Draco for help, his heart beginning to pound. How could Draco stand there surrounded by so much death and act as if everything was fine? How could you make a future when the past was always talking to you? And how was Cassie any different from those awful pincushion hedgehogs they’d had to make first year, stuck somewhere between fabric and flesh, neither one nor the other? The whole Manor was like that, he realized. And all this death was working its way inside him, winding its lifeless fingers around his heart and lungs as surely as Cassie wanted to wind her hand in his. He needed to get out of this place before Death found him again—

“Which game?” Draco asked, a soft smile on his face as he inclined his head toward the lifeless, lifelike girl.

“Let’s play rats and bats! The rats are already awake, so all we have to do now is call the bats down. I’ll have the Librarian--”

Harry’s Quidditch reflexes took over--no forethought, just pure fluid motion. His left arm shot out and linked through Draco’s as his right arm swept his wand and he shouted the words of their destination. And then the Manor library vanished around them as he and Draco were tugged away, into the stomach-dropping lurch of Apparition. 

 

*

Noise. A lot of it. Very loud and not at all pleasant. But it wasn’t the flutter of thousands of bat wings, or screeching rats that were part keys, and that was all that mattered. 

Traffic, car horns, someone yelling. Harry staggered a little, finding his footing as his body arrived on what appeared to be pavement. He was standing on a busy street corner, where an enormous lorry was blowing its horn at a taxicab stopped in the middle of a zebra crossing while the evening traffic surged around them. But most of the noise was coming from Draco, who was shouting at him.

“What the fuck, Potter? You can’t just Side-Along Apparate me to fuck knows where” --Draco broke off to glance about-- “Some sodding Muggle street in the middle of London? What do you think I am, a bloody house elf that you can just shove about wherever you like?”

“We had to get out of there.” Harry shook his head, trying to clear the disorienting after-effects of Apparition from his foggy brain.

“We bloody well didn’t! And not like that! What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

“ _I_ had to get out of there, Draco.”

“Then you should have, to the best of your ability, used your rudimentary command of the English language to tell me so. Or failing that, to gesture and grunt until I’d apprehended the general idea that you wished to leave.” Two spots of color had appeared high on Draco’s cheeks, and his grey eyes were bright with anger.

“I just--” Harry didn’t know what to say. How could he explain what the Manor had done to him without angering Draco even further? “There was too much death in there,” he managed. “And it was--it wasn’t right.” 

Draco scowled at him so viciously that Harry stepped back, his hands balling into fists, ready to swing in self-defense. Not that Draco was much for physical fighting, Harry thought, a memory surfacing of a thirteen-year-old Draco sent running by one good punch from Hermione. Besides, Draco was still holding the jar with the rat-key in it, and his other hand was planted on his hip, his bony elbow a perfect match for his pointy chin, stuck out like an advance guard for his scowl, which somehow extended to take in the whole street, as if each car and shop and pedestrian were a personal affront. Harry waited, and saw the moment when Draco’s shoulders dropped and he simply hunched into his robes, shivering in the evening wind.

“Where are we, anyway?” Draco asked, still scowling. 

Harry wasn’t entirely sure, although he wasn’t keen to let Draco know that. He’d simply called out the first thing that had popped into his head. “Do you see a sign for something called the Lumi?” he asked.

“The loony? I’m pretty sure he’s standing right in front of me.” 

“The _Lumi._ It’s a hotel. I think that’s what it’s called.” 

“You don’t even _know_? Then why the bloody--” 

“Because I was panicking, all right?” Harry felt a flare of anger in his chest. He took a breath and did his best to tamp it down. "Those fucking rat-keys were bad enough, but then that horrible--” he hesitated, not wanting to insult Draco’s childhood friend-- “those horrible bats,” he finished.

“Rat-keys and bats are traditional in place like the Manor,” Draco said. “That kind of thing is important to my father.” 

“Well, you’re well shot of it all now.” Harry waved his hand at the street, whose rush hour traffic was comfortingly free of any animals other than a few pigeons. Come on, Malfoy. You had your panic attack last week after I--you know, did the whole burn-you-drown-you-set-a-snake-on-you thing, and I had my bit of panic just now, from your dead wax girl and your coffin full of rat-keys and your ceiling full of thousands of bats. All right? We’re both fucked up from the war. Come on, let’s call it even.”

Draco blinked, his expression shifting into something a bit softer. He licked his lips and looked away. 

“You can’t yank me around like that,” he said, his voice tight. “I won’t have it.”

“I wasn’t yanking you--all right, maybe I was,” Harry amended. “But I didn’t think of it like that.” He shook his head again, wishing desperately for the words that would make Draco understand. “All week I’ve been dreaming of getting out of Hogwarts with you so we could be alone together, and the whole time we were on our way to the Manor I thought we’d end the day shagging on some enormous posh bed. But it wasn’t like that at all, was it, and--bloody hell, Draco, it scared me in there. I was scared, all right? And when Cassie started going on about having a game with the bats and the rat-keys, I just snapped. I yelled out the first thing that came into my head.”

“Which was a London hotel you’ve never been to, whose name you aren’t even sure of? Brilliant plan.”

Harry felt himself flush, though he didn’t think Draco could see it in the evening light. “It’s the hotel where Ron and Hermione went to celebrate her nineteenth birthday a few weeks ago,” he admitted. “Just the two of them. It’s… you know. The kind of place you spend a weekend with your… with your…. Oi, look. Over there. I bet that’s it.” 

Diagonally across the intersection, a small sign hung from a bracket affixed to the side of a large white townhouse that occupied the entire corner. On the sign, elegant gold letters proclaimed _Hotel Lumière_.

“A weekend with your what?” Draco asked. His eyes were fixed somewhere down the street, away from the hotel and away from Harry, as if he had no interest whatever in Harry’s answer. 

“With my boyfriend,” Harry said, his cheeks heating. “If he’ll stop being narked off at me long enough to let me get him alone in a room with a proper bed, that is.”

Draco turned his head a few centimeters toward Harry, his eyes flicking to Harry’s face and then away again, but not before Harry saw the hope and happiness there. Or perhaps, Harry thought a moment later, he was only seeing what he wanted to see, because then Draco turned his face all the way toward his and Harry would have sworn that Draco looked terribly sad. The way he had at the trials after the war, as if nothing would ever be right for him again. Then that expression was gone too, and Draco said, “Well, we might as well get inside. It’s bloody cold out here.” And he started across the street, not waiting to see if Harry would follow. 

Harry did, of course, lifting his head to the October wind as if the cold gusts lifting bits of litter from the gutter might also clear away the remains of the bad feelings that clung to him. He was crap at knowing how to read other people’s emotions, much less deal with them--Ginny and Hermione always said so. But at least Draco wasn’t shouting at him anymore. Or hexing him. For the moment, he’d have to be content with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's reading along with us! If you're enjoying this fic, please let us know! We love to hear from you, and your comments make our day. We're on tumblr too, [@lefthanded-basilisk](https://lefthanded-basilisk.tumblr.com)  
> .
> 
>  
> 
> The next chapter will be posted on Saturday, July 14.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to maesterchill for the beta.

 

The Lumière Hotel--or the Lumi, as Harry insisted on calling it, apparently because Granger had--was a good deal nicer than Draco had expected. The lobby was done in dark oak and cream velvet with small chandeliers overhead that cast imitation but pleasant candlelight from small glass bulbs. Draco gazed up at them, interested in spite of himself. Their crystal ornaments were plainer yet somehow prettier than the ones in the Manor, he thought, and then felt like a traitor. To make up for it, he focused instead on the way those holes in the wall where Muggles plugged in their lamps marred the otherwise smooth flow of the wallpaper. And then there was the bizarre and ridiculous form of Muggle money Harry was pulling out, a small, ugly plastic card he handed to the concierge, who then laid it on some sort of Muggle contraption that resembled nothing so much as a miniature clothes press. She ran a bar back and forth over it several times, and then handed it back to Harry again, which made no sense at all, along with a piece of paper on which the image of the card had somehow been inked by the clothes press thing. 

When they stepped out of the lift, Harry held up the room key, a small scrap of mass-produced Muggle metal attached to a crude plastic tag. “Look,” he said, fitting it into the lock above the doorknob and grinning at Draco. “No claws or whiskers.” 

Draco’s fingers tightened around the jar with the key from the Manor. “My key hasn’t got claws or whiskers anymore either,” he said, feeling defensive. “Once a Malfoy takes possession of a Manor key, it becomes inanimate again. It stays a rat only if someone outside the family captures it.” He unscrewed the jar lid so he could show Harry, wondering as he did if the key would turn back into a rat once Dawlish took possession of it. Would Dawlish make him open the grimoire himself? Was there a way Draco could make the key switch allegiance to Dawlish, just so he could be rid of his part in the whole sodding disaster that much sooner? 

Harry peered into the jar, which now contained a large, ornate, and fully inanimate brass key with a head of inlaid emerald. He pressed his lips together, a thin line of worry creasing his forehead, cutting right through his scar. He was probably on the verge of asking another bloody question about whether Draco was still sure he didn’t want to use this key to change back, which meant Draco would have to tell him yet another lie about what the key was for. 

He didn’t want to lie again. Not when Harry was looking at him like that, with such an expression of anxious hope that Draco’s heart did a very un-Slytherin flip in his chest, a combination of something that was half love, half guilt and all pain. 

So instead of speaking, he leaned forward and kissed Harry, soft and quick on the mouth. Harry sighed against him, his arms going around Draco, holding him in place, keeping and deepening the kiss. His lips were soft and earnest, as eager as his blow jobs but significantly more skilled; he hummed against Draco’s tongue, lightly nipping his lower lip while while he reached around behind Draco and pushed open the door of their room. Then, still kissing, he began walking Draco backward over the threshold, entirely unaware that he was being lied to because he was a sodding, trusting, Gryffindor fool whom Draco was going to entirely fuck over tomorrow night when he gave the key to Dawlish. 

“Hang on,” Draco said, breaking the kiss because suddenly he couldn’t bear for Harry to be loving him like this when he didn’t deserve it. “Let’s have a look at the room before we set about wrecking it.” 

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. Okay.” Harry stepped back, looking a little dazed. Merlin, but he was gullible. 

It was amazing he’d managed to defeat the Dark Lord even once, let alone multiple times. It was too bad he hadn’t been there the night the Dark Lord had melted the key to Draco’s sexuality in the enormous fireplace at Malfoy Manor. On the other hand, then Draco might be keyed to be lusting after girls now. No--for all the humiliation that night had brought to him and his family, he wouldn’t trade anything for this chance to be with Harry. Even if it might be his last. 

Draco took several deep breaths and looked around, trying to ground himself. Their room was small but elegant, with a four-poster bed of dark wood and pillows piled high against an ornately carved headboard. A marble fireplace stood in the wall opposite the bed, with several large logs laid in the grate, ready for lighting. If this was where Granger had wanted the Weasel to fuck her on her birthday, Draco supposed he’d have to admit that Granger’s taste--in fuck pads, not in men--was much better than he’d imagined. True, the hotel room’s ambience was marred by its preponderance of Muggle appliances with attached cords--a bedside clock, two electric lamps, a telephone--but the bedspread was clearly of a high thread count, and there was a bowl of very decent looking fresh fruit on a low tea table under the window. Draco set the key jar down on the bedside table and watched as Harry knelt before the fireplace and cast an _Incendio_ on the logs, which immediately burst into a brilliant blaze. 

Sodding Gryffindor show-off. Draco’s cock had no objection to the display, however. The power of Harry’s magic was a fucking turn-on. It always had been, even before Draco was old enough to get properly hard. He was properly hard now, though: between the snogging and that _Incendio_ , Draco was ready to go. If only his heart didn’t ache.

“So, Potter,” he said in the poshest voice he could manage. “Now that you’ve kidnapped me, what do you plan to do with me?”

Harry straightened up from the fireplace and turned to Draco, his eyes soft and dark. “Perhaps it’s you who should make the plan,” he said, his mouth opening in a slow deliberate grin. “A little while ago you were accusing me of ordering you around like a house elf. I wouldn’t want that.” He reached out and hooked a finger into the waistband of Draco’s trousers, pulling him closer. “So how about you order me instead?” 

Salazar on a _stick_. Arousal swept over Draco with such intensity he had to press his hand to his cock, fearing for a moment that he might actually come in his pants.

Harry’s grin grew wider. “You like that idea, Malfoy?” 

“What are you offering?” Draco managed to croak. 

Harry tugged off his jumper, and then his Henley. Bare-chested, he spread his arms wide. “Whatever you want,” he said. The hair under his arms was thick and black and Draco wanted to bury his nose in it. Instead he reached out and ran his hands down Harry’s naked torso. Harry’s skin was as warm as the firelight and he leaned into Draco’s touch. Draco pressed his palms against Harry’s abdomen, the dimple of his navel and the soft curling hair below it, loving the feel of his body. Then he undid the button of Harry’s jeans and fumbled with the flies until Harry laid his hands over Draco’s and, gently pushing his fingers aside, reached out and undid Draco’s flies instead. He slid his hand in between Draco’s trousers and his pants, cupping Draco’s erection through his briefs. “Whatever you want,” he said again, and dropped to his knees on the carpet, gazing up at Draco, his face alight with desire. 

Whatever Draco wanted? He wanted a past in which he’d never had to choose between protecting his family and selling his soul to Voldemort. He wanted a present in which he didn’t have to choose between being with Harry and getting his father out of prison. He wanted a future with Harry at his side, a Harry who loved and desired him. But he couldn’t say any of that of course, and as he hesitated Harry pressed his face to Draco’s groin. 

“Teach me to suck you,” Harry said, his breath hot through Draco’s pants. He mouthed over Draco’s hard-on, trying to draw the tip between his lips, Y-fronts and all. 

Draco shivered, his hips thrusting toward Harry’s mouth. His heart ached with love and guilt and his cock ached with the need to feel Harry’s full lips around it. 

Harry tugged Draco’s briefs down to his ankles. Draco’s cock sprang forward and Harry fell on him at once, licking long sloppy stripes up the side of Draco’s shaft. “Tell me how you like it, how to do it to you,” he murmured. “Remember that day with Neville and Blaise, when we had the contest to see which of us could make them come first and I lost? You promised you’d teach me.” 

“I promised no such thing.” In truth, Draco scarcely knew what Harry was talking about--he was too overwhelmed by the fact of Harry on his knees before him, gazing up which such a look on his face--a look of flushed arousal and something else, something shining in his eyes, something that looked a lot like-- _say it, say it secretly inside your head_ \--like love. 

Draco closed his eyes a moment. He needed just that long to decide that he needed this night, to armor him for whatever came tomorrow once he handed the key to Dawlish and Harry cut him out of his life forever. If he could have this one night, maybe he’d have the strength to get through all those tomorrows. 

Now Harry was cupping Draco’s balls in his hand, rolling them between his fingers. Draco felt his sac tighten, pleasure surging up through the root of his cock and softening the edges of his anxiety, pushing it away into the shadows at the edges of the room. 

“Tell me what to do,” Harry urged. 

“That. That’s good. Play with me. With my balls. Get me ready.” 

“You look pretty fucking ready right now.” Harry grinned up at him, knocking his forehead against the underside of Draco’s shaft, which was so hard it bounced against his abdomen. 

“Shut the fuck up and put my cock in your mouth, then. And mind the teeth.” He had to be snarky and prickly right now. If he wasn’t he’d do something stupid like fall to his knees and tell Harry how much he was in love with him and beg him not to leave.

Harry sucked him in, his lips pushing back Draco’s foreskin, the sensitive head of his cock hitting the roof of Harry’s mouth. Harry hummed a question, looking up at Draco through glasses that were now completely askew on his face, his mouth taut around Draco’s prick.

“Put your hand on me too,” Draco said. And twist a little--” 

Fuck, he was really doing this. He was telling Harry how to suck him off. It was shameful and it was brilliant, and saying what he wanted out loud sent a deep shiver of pleasure through Draco, heating his face and his groin at once. And it wasn’t like a contract suck at all. It was like Harry wanted to give him pleasure because it would make him happy if he could. It was downright Hufflepuff.

Harry made a “go on” sort of noise in his throat. Draco swallowed. It was hard to keep giving Harry directions when it felt so good already. But he tried. “Bob your head slower and--fuck, yeah. Your hand, like that, that’s good, that’s so good Harry.” 

Harry’s eyes were shining, his mouth swollen and wet, his cheeks flushed. 

“And… and tongue me. Under the head of my cock. Like, Oh. Oh fuck, Harry, yeah. Fuck, like that.” Harry had it now. Draco gripped his shoulders, telling him with his hands and with the long sound leaving his throat that it was so good like this, Harry using his tongue and hand together, his mouth so hot and soft and wet on Draco’s shaft. And then before Draco could say what he wanted next, Harry was doing it. He trailed the fingers of his other hand along the seam of Draco’s bollocks, back over his perineum and to the soft hair ringing his hole. He stroked there, light and feathery and perfect, his touch calling forth bright shivers of pleasure from every cell of Draco’s skin. And then Harry’s hand grew slick with a wandless _Lubrico_. Draco felt the heat and power of Harry’s magic against his skin, working into him as surely and as gently as Harry’s finger stroked the dimple of his hole. Teasing, asking. Harry was still sucking him, taking Draco a little deeper now, his tongue working the underside of Draco’s cockhead. His finger asking, waiting. Yes, said Draco’s body, his hips rocking down against Harry’s finger. Yes, said his mouth, a long moan of pleasure. Harry answered with a hum that vibrated deep in Draco’s cock. His orgasm was beginning to gather in his balls, taut against the base of Harry’s palm. 

“Put your finger inside me,” Draco begged. He didn’t care that he was begging. He wanted it too much. Harry pressed the tip of his finger gently, just there. His eyes were on Draco’s face, watching his reaction, and it was too much, Draco had to shut his eyes and turn his head away as he said, _more_ and then Harry’s finger was sliding deeper inside him. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh God.” He was babbling and he didn’t care. “Fuck me with your finger while you suck me. Deeper. More.” Harry slid his mouth deeper down Draco’s shaft as his finger pressed farther in and Draco was swallowed in pleasure. Harry was so hot and tight and wet around him, his mouth so strong and his finger so gentle, pressing inside Draco until his whole body was vibrating, shaking him apart. “I’m going to come,” Draco gasped, and Harry tightened his lips just under the head of Draco’s cock and moaned. Draco gripped Harry’s shoulders, his whole body spasming in pleasure. Harry stilled, Draco’s cock in his hot mouth, and took it, swallowing, Draco’s hole pulsing around his finger. 

He would have collapsed on the rug save that Harry was holding him by the thighs, keeping him upright; then Harry got up off his knees and walked Draco backward toward the bed, tumbling them both onto the mattress. 

Harry lay on top of him, pressing Draco down into the soft linens. Draco went limp beneath him, loving the feeling of being held down by the weight of Harry’s bare chest against his own. Harry was whispering something in his ear. Words, a question. Draco breathed and blinked, trying to make sense of the sounds. He felt limp, overwhelmed. “What?” he asked, his own voice strange in his ears.

“How’d I do?” 

“You bloody well wrecked me.” Draco tried for snark and missed entirely.

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Draco echoed. _I sound like Harry now,_ he thought. 

Harry pushed himself up onto his elbows over Draco, his eyes shining and his face flushed, the firelight casting a rosy glow over his skin, a bronze statue of a young god come to life. “I like wrecking you,” Harry said. “I like what it does to your face. Makes it all soft and sort of… you know. _Soft_ ,” he finished.

“Fuck off, you.” Draco scowled, trying to banish from his expression whatever Harry was making fun of, but then Harry ran a finger across Draco’s jaw and over his lips and Draco felt his something in his chest go way beyond soft and straight into wobbly. 

Harry rolled his hips, the denim of his jeans rough against Draco’s bare skin. “I liked you telling me what to do,” he said, with a grin whose heat came from deep in his eyes. “How about you tell me how I should get off now?” 

Draco felt the sharp stab of something pierce him, an energy in his body that he couldn’t name. Arousal, fear, hunger, need? Yes, all of it. 

“If I do, will you do what I tell you?” Draco asked.

“Sure.” Harry rolled off Draco and onto his back and went to work on taking off his jeans. Draco wanted to point out that he hadn’t told Harry to do that, or anything else, for that matter, but he was distracted by Harry setting his glasses on the bedside table beside the jar with the grimoire key. The key that was going to lock Draco in to the path he had chosen if he handed it over to Dawlish. _When_ he handed it over, because so what if he was lying naked on a bed with the boy he’d been in love with since he’d first known what those feelings meant--his father’s soul was one Dementor’s Kiss away from being lost forever, his body one stumbled step away from being killed by the werewolf who shared his cell. The full moon was the day after tomorrow and Draco remembered perfectly well what he tried to tell Harry a week ago--that being a pureblood meant doing all sorts of things you didn’t want to do, because that was what you had to do to honor your family obligations and keep Wizarding society alive. 

Harry hadn’t understood at all, of course. And after seeing the Manor, Harry had understood less, not more. What had he said when Draco had tried to explain how rat-keys and the library’s bats fit into the tradition Draco and his parents were part of? _You’re well shot of it all._ He might as well have said, You’re well shot of your family, your heritage. You’re well shot of your loyalty, your values. You’re well shot of _yourself._

Harry had removed his jeans and pants and trainers and rolled onto his side facing Draco, fully naked now, his hand wrapped casually around his hard-on. “What do you want me to do?” he asked with that same grin, as if he had not a care in the world besides Draco on this bed. Nothing in the shadows. No tomorrow. No war yesterday. Nothing but this, nothing but here. When Draco looked at Harry spread out before him, he could almost believe it was true. 

“Just touch me,” Draco said, his voice breaking. He reached for Harry’s hand and pulled it roughly to his body. It wasn’t fucking fair, and he was too old to pretend that that was surprising. “Just make me feel you. I want--I want to feel all of you.” He hesitated. But why not admit what he’d fantasized about for years? This was his last chance to get it, after all. Perversely, that realization calmed him. Perhaps this was how people who were not brave faced death bravely nonetheless. Once they knew there was no turning back, a relief settled over them, a relaxation, and that made them able to say and do things they otherwise would not. Draco held Harry’s hand against his chest and closed his eyes, because he wasn’t _that_ brave, and then spoke. 

“I want us to fuck.” Draco turned his head away, his whole body tensing, trying to prevent him from speaking the words he so desperately wanted. Beneath his palm, he could feel Harry’s heart beating harder. 

“I want to too,” Harry said. 

Draco shook his head. “Listen. I mean. I want….” 

“Anything. Any way you want it.”

Draco looked up, startled by how easily Harry was able to say he’d be up for Draco’s prick in his arse. For a moment he let the image wash over him; Harry spread out beneath him on the bed, his knees hiked up to his shoulders, his cock rock-hard against his stomach, his hole on display. For Draco to enter, to do what he liked. Arousal and fear: the urge to take Harry, open him up and fuck him. And the power of it frightened Draco, a sudden pressure in his chest that felt like diving too far under water. He was afraid of having that power. He would do the wrong thing with any power he was given, he always had. 

“Draco?” 

Draco shook his head. His cock was flagging and Harry was watching him with a worried expression on his face. 

“Hey,” Harry said, reaching out and sliding his fingers through Draco’s hair. “I want to do whatever you want. Really. I’m game.”

That was the thing about Harry--now that he’d decided to trust Draco, he trusted him completely. Like a sodding Gryffindor, like a foolish child. Didn’t he know any better? Had the war taught him nothing? 

Draco met Harry’s gaze. “I want you to do exactly what I tell you,” he said.

“Okay. Tell me something, then.” That grin again. 

“I want you to fuck me,” Draco said, and the words seemed to ignite the air between them. He felt Harry’s hand tense against his chest as Harry’s magic flared out, wild and excited.

In the fireplace a burning log fell with a soft thunk and a crush of sparks. Draco jerked his head, startled by the sound.

“Draco.” Harry’s eyes were bright. “You want that? You’ll let me?” When Draco nodded, Harry rolled on top of him, pinning him to the bed and rolling his hips slowly against Draco’s cock. 

“But you have to do what I say,” Draco managed.

“I promise,” Harry said, and then Draco was kissing him, his lips opening Harry’s lips, his tongue slipping between them for a taste of Harry’s tongue and then withdrawing, and then Harry was pressing into him, his mouth hot and hungry, his hard cock rocking into Draco’s and his naked skin hot against against Draco’s skin, dragging softly against his body and then gliding as their bodies grew slick with sweat. 

_I could get lost in this,_ Draco thought from somewhere far away. _I could stay here and never leave._ He gripped Harry’s bare arse cheeks, loving the smooth skin under his hands, pressing Harry’s groin to his own, his hips rising up to match the roll of Harry’s hips, his cock thickening beneath him as he kissed and kissed Harry, pulling him down against his body, as if Harry’s weight against him could keep him from the rest of his life. 

But he wanted more. Draco wrapped his legs around Harry’s waist, holding onto him that way. Harry swore with pleasure and moved his fingers to Draco’s balls, then behind his balls to the root of his cock, and then his hole, still damp with lube from the earlier fingering. 

“I want to be in your arse so fucking much,” he said. “Just tell me what to do. I mean, I know you will, like you said. But also. I don’t really know with a bloke. Even with Ginny, we didn’t--” Harry broke off and struggled to sit up a bit, a sheepish look on his face.

 _You fucking idiot,_ Draco thought, because he couldn’t bear to let himself think his other feelings into words. Aloud he said, “Cast a double-strength _Lubrico_ ,” because even he knew that much. Didn’t Potter ever read wizarding porn mags for fuck’s sake?

He must have done, Draco realized a moment later, because Harry cast the spell correctly the first time, cupping his hand to catch the sudden puddle of slick it conjured. Then he sat up on his knees between between Draco’s legs and stroked it over his cock, then looked down at Draco. “Hey,” he said softly. He looked utterly daft, his nearsighted eyes blinking large and dark in the firelight, lube dripping between his fingers and onto the coverlet. “Tell me what to do next.” 

“Spread it on your cock and then kiss me, you arsehole,” Draco croaked, his voice already breaking. He pulled Harry down on top of him again, spreading his legs and drawing up his knees as he did. “And on my arse,” he added, just in case Harry really had no idea how this was supposed to go. 

Still kissing Draco, Harry raised himself up to his knees and elbows, then moved one hand between their bodies, his lubed fingers fluttering over Draco’s balls, then further back to coat his arse. Then he stilled his hand, waiting. 

Draco reached between their bodies as well and began stroking himself. The feel of his own hand on his cock calmed him a little. Harry’s finger traced a slow circle around the naked wrinkle of his hole, then moved away again to play with Draco’s balls, his fingers teasing along the seam of Draco’s sac, pulling gently on the soft wiry curls as he watched Draco wank. Draco let his head press deeper into the pillow, his legs fall open. He was beginning to relax into the release of sex now, the tightness in his chest loosening as Harry played with him, his fingers alternating between cupping Draco’s bollocks and petting his hole. 

Draco felt his balls draw up, pleasure building in his cock and arcing deep inside him wherever Harry touched. “Okay,” he said. “You can--” he had to close his eyes. “Put your cock there.” 

Harry shifted around a bit, taking hold of his cock and easing it to the furled edge of Draco’s hole. 

“Do you want me to push in?” Harry asked, and his voice was shaking. 

Draco nodded. Fear flared through his body and he added quickly, “Just go slow.” 

“Okay. I won’t hurt you, Draco. I promise.” Draco felt his heart turn over. Harry’s face gazing down him was a mess of urgency and lust and tenderness, and he was nudging the tip of his prick against Draco’s arsehole, slick and smooth. Draco took a breath, trying desperately to relax. And then Harry’s magic was there, moving lightly over his skin the way Harry’s finger had stroked over him. And it was hot and gentle and terrible in its tenderness, so much power concentrated into the places their bodies were touching. Draco’s magic rose up in answer, flowing strong and clear toward Harry’s, entwining with Harry’s and making something that was neither Draco’s nor Harry’s but a new magic between them. It was this new magic that let Draco breathe out. He opened--his mouth and his heart and his hole, and then Harry was inside him. Harry’s kiss, Harry’s cock. And Harry’s love. 

Harry loved him. Draco could feel it as surely as he felt the tip of Harry’s cock pressing into his arse. Draco gasped at the shock of it, the stretch and the fullness. It was almost too big, and it almost hurt, and yet there was room. 

_This is real_ , he thought. _You can keep this one time forever._

“Oh my God. Fuck.” Harry stilled, his face flushed. “We’re doing this. I wanted to so fucking much.” A flutter of concern wrinkled his forehead. “Is it okay?”

“Just don’t move.” It was all Draco could manage. Everything else was too big to say.

“Not moving. Do you--do you wanna wank some more?”

“Yeah.” Draco realized he was clutching Harry’s shoulders. He let go and brought his hand back to his cock. Harry’s lubed hand joined him there, coating Draco’s shaft. Draco sighed in relief, the spell slick on his palm as he worked his foreskin over the head of his cock. His legs were trembling and he tried to still them, digging his heels into the mattress. 

“Can I move now?” Harry asked

Yes, Draco wanted to say, because he wanted to be ready. He wanted Harry to pound into him until he couldn’t think, couldn’t see. Couldn’t feel, even. But he hesitated, and in the hesitation, Harry spoke again. 

“Draco? It’s okay just like this. This is so fucking good.” Harry moved his hand, his knuckles brushing against Draco’s arse as Harry took hold of himself, wrapping a hand around himself to keep from thrusting. “I love how you feel on my cock,” Harry said, his voice hoarse and low. “You feel so good around my cock. Draco. Just like this, I...Oh fuck, I’m so close already, I--” He broke off, his face tensing in an effort to stave off his orgasm. “Just from this,” he continued after a few breaths. He touched Draco’s cheek, his chest. “From you. I want you so fucking much, I...” 

Draco blinked, his eyes suddenly wet.

He wasn’t going to cry. Only who would have thought that inside all Harry Potter’s headstrong reckless power, his magic that crashed headlong through the world and never looked to see what destruction it left in its wake, who would have thought that inside it was such terrible gentleness, such stillness, such love? 

“Should I pull out?” Harry asked, his forehead wrinkling in concern.

“No!” Draco shook his head. “Please no. It’s good. It’s really good.” He began wanking again, trying to ground himself amidst the almost overwhelming feelings pouring through him. It was all so much. “I want to make you come,” he managed to say. 

Harry’s hand bumped gently against Draco’s arse cheeks. “Can I wank myself like this?” Harry asked. “With just the tip inside you? I won’t push farther in.”

Fuck, that was hot. Draco bit his lip. He wasn’t going to cry after all; he was going to come. “Yeah,” Draco panted, pleasure swelling through him again. “I want you to come in my arse.”

“Christ, Malfoy.” Harry dropped lower on his elbows, his mouth coming to rest by Draco’s ear. “Say that again and I’ll come right now. Jesus.” He laughed, a soft, sex-drunk huff, and then took a few deep breaths, obviously trying to last longer.

Draco stroked himself more firmly, twisting his hand, his nose buried in Harry’s hair. “Wank yourself, then.” 

“Yeah? You want me to wank with the head of my cock inside you?” Harry’s voice turned rough. 

“Yeah. And I want to come with your cock inside me.” To say it was to call it forth; Draco’s balls drew up behind his shaft, the pressure of his building orgasm vibrating out to encompass the stretch of his hole, the heat of their bodies, the power of their magic mixing. Harry was moving his hand on his own cock again, the side of his thumb and finger slapping against Draco’s arse. 

“Fuck, Draco. Fuck.” Harry was panting now. “You close?” 

“Yeah. Gonna come--” his body tensed, everything contracting into the singularity of his cock and his hole, a coiled spring, tightening in an agony of almost-release--

“Oh fuck, Draco. Fuck, oh God.”

\--And releasing. Unsprung, pleasure pulsing through Draco as he came, shooting all over his chest, and Harry was coming too, swearing and shaking, his body rigid over Draco’s, his cock spurting in Draco’s hole. Harry let himself drop against Draco, his chest hot and damp, smearing Draco’s spunk between their bodies like glue. 

“Draco,” Harry whispered against his cheek. “God and fuck. Draco.” 

Draco clutched him, wrapping his legs around Harry and pulling him closer still. 

“You’re fucking amazing, Draco Malfoy.” Harry kissed his cheek, his nose, the corner of his mouth. Raised himself up on one elbow, their bodies separating stickily, and kissed Draco again. Said something. 

Draco was sure he’d heard it wrong. 

“I love you,” Harry said again. “I fucking love you.” 

Draco stilled and the words worked inside him.

“I love you, Draco.” Harry nosed into his neck, kissed him there and there and there. 

Draco buried his nose in Harry’s hair and tried to memorize the smell of it, the coarseness of it, the way it felt against his mouth. “I’ve always loved you, Harry,” he whispered, and his voice did not shake. “I love you so much.” He wrapped his arms around Harry and held him hard because it had taken Draco nearly half a lifetime to be able to say it, but by God it was true, and to say it now at the end was better than never at all. And he wasn’t going to cry, not now.

“Do you?” Harry asked. 

“I’m so in love with you.” Draco wiped at his eyes. “Now look what you made me do, you Gryffindor arsehole.” 

“You love me?” Harry asked again, and Draco understood that. How a person might not believe they could have the thing they wanted, might need to hear it a second time, and a third time too, and then again, before believing it was true. 

“I always have,” Draco said. “Even when I thought I hated you. And I always will. I love you, Harry.”

“You won’t change back, then?”

“What?” Something jarred their mingled magic, and then Harry rolled off him, his cock sliding out of Draco’s body. Draco felt suddenly terribly empty. Harry reached for something on the nightstand--his glasses? No--he was fumbling with the jar, he was taking out the key, that fucking key. 

“Harry.” Draco pushed himself up to half-sitting. “Forget the key. I won’t ever change back. No matter what.” 

“You mean it?”

“I swear it.” 

Harry gazed at him a moment, and Draco could see himself reflected in the firelight of Harry’s eyes, a tiny streak of pale gold in the dark pupils. Harry looked so happy, and Draco felt it too, a perfect moment of joy suspended in time as the air they shared hung suspended in their lungs. Then Harry gave a huge sigh that was half relief, half exultation, and turning, he threw the key straight into the fire. 

Draco felt for a split second as if he’d been hit with a stunning spell. Then he leapt up, scrambling for his wand, but where was it? It was lost somewhere in the bedclothes and in a second it would be too late. _“Aguamenti,"_ he howled at the fire, but he couldn’t cast it wandlessly and nothing happened. The key blazed up, flames licking at its magic. The emerald embedded in the key’s head began to smoke. Draco hurled himself off the bed and plunged his hand into the fire, his fingers closing around the searing metal. He yanked it out and threw it halfway across the room, away from his burning palm.

Too late. Draco could see even before the key hit the floor that the emerald had vanished. 

The key’s magic had been undone. It wouldn’t open the grimoire Dawlish had stolen, or anything else, ever. It was just a long, peculiarly-shaped brass ornament now. 

“Malfoy! What the fuck? What the goddamn fuck?” 

Harry had risen to his knees on the mattress, and was staring down at Draco where he knelt on the floor, his whole body trembling. 

“What the fuck did you just do?” Harry jumped off the bed, angry magic surging through the room. Draco felt all his hair stand on end.

“Answer me, God damn it!” Harry was standing over Draco now, his magic blazing. “You told me you loved me and that you’ll never use the key to change yourself straight, you fucking _swore_ it, just now, I heard you, and then four seconds later you change your mind? What the-- Were you just fucking with me? I swear to fucking God, Malfoy--” Harry turned from Draco and drove his fist straight into the wall. The plaster shivered and a Muggle painting of the Cliffs of Dover crashed to the floor. Harry kicked it against the wall as well, and Draco heard the thin snap of the wooden frame breaking. He cradled his burned hand, the outline of the key rising from his palm in bright pink blisters. “Why did you lie to me?” Harry repeated, his voice shaking with rage and desperation. 

“I didn’t lie about that,” Draco said. His voice sounded far away in his ears. “I’ll never change back. And I love you more than anything.”

“Then what the fuck is going on? Why did you stick your hand in the goddamn fire to get back the key?”

“Because I promised Dawlish I’d give it to him.” It was all crashing down now. Draco tried to breathe, but he felt as if a load of stones had settled on his chest.

“Give it to _Dawlish_? What for?” 

“That key is not the key to my sexual orientation,” Draco said. The words were thick in his throat. “The Dark Lord destroyed that key. During sixth year, to humiliate my father. This is a key that opens a grimoire Dawlish took. If I don’t give it to him, he’ll keep torturing father. Except it’s broken now. The emerald’s gone.”

_“What?”_

Draco felt as if his throat was closing up. He sipped a breath of air and tried to get all the words out as fast as he could. “Dawlish has got a werewolf in Father’s cell, to torture him. But Dawlish said if I get the key to the grimoire he stole from the Manor, he’ll take the werewolf away.” The look on Harry’s face was terrible now, but Draco pressed on, desperate to make Harry understand. “But I know he’d just find some other way to torture him, and then Blaise showed me in the Arithmancy room that if I could just get Dawlish the key then I could free him, and I have to, I can’t do anything else, he’s my father, and Blaise said if I did it someone I loved--would never--and that’s you--” he broke off, because if he said another word he would start sobbing.

“So you’ve been lying to me this whole time.” The air around Harry began to shimmer and tremble, his magic straining to erupt with the full force of his anger. 

“I love you,” Draco said desperately. “I always have. The key never changed that. I was bi before, this _is_ me, Harry, Blaise showed me that, and I love you. I didn’t lie about that. Only I needed the grimoire key for Dawlish and I knew you wouldn’t understand, because you hate my father but it was the only way to save him, so I--”

“And you didn’t even fucking try to explain? You just used me?”

“I didn’t mean--”

“You fucking did! You lied to me and you used me. You told me you wanted in to the Manor so you could get your fucking Potions book, and like a bloody idiot I believed you. You told me we were getting your sexuality key and I believed you. And you’ve been lying to me. This whole fucking _time_.” Harry’s voice broke on the last word as the nightstand burst apart, the empty jar and the fruit bowl and Harry’s glasses flying across the room. If Harry noticed, he gave no sign of it. “And you know what, Malfoy? I fucking deserve it. You were a shit the day I met you and a shit in school and a fucking traitor in the war because all you’ve ever cared about is your saving your own neck. And I’m the biggest sucker in the world for thinking for one bloody second that you’d changed. And you _used_ me. That’s even worse than the lies.” Harry turned away, his shoulders shaking. “Accio wand,” he said, his voice choked. “Accio glasses.” When he had both in his hand, he turned back to Draco, and his face was terrible. 

“You used me,” he said again. “You… you _Slytherin_.” Harry spat the House name like a curse. “Don’t ever speak to me again.” He turned away from Draco, swung his arm wide and Disapparated. 

Draco stared down at his hand, where the stem of the key had burned its outline into his palm. But the pain of that was nothing against the slow stab of pain inside him, as if his body were being flayed open. His palm grew wet, began to blur. An image shot through his mind of himself on a wet bathroom floor, his chest flayed open, his life bleeding out. Harry Potter had done that to him too. Draco curled into a ball on the rug, trying to contain the pain, the bleeding, the tears. 

It was too late. Everything had happened just as the equations had predicted. He had gotten the key and Harry had cut him out of his life forever. And the grimoire key was broken. Did that mean the equation on the Arithmancy walls had broken too? Draco closed his eyes, Blaise’s numbers swimming in his head. Blaise had thought this was the wrong course of action. Blaise had said Draco should tell Harry the truth about what Dawlish was doing. But of course Draco hadn’t. 

Once again, he’d made the wrong choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Real life continues to make significant demands on both authors, so the next chapter will be posted on Saturday, August 4. In the meantime, your comments, kudos and recs keep us inspired and we cherish every one! 
> 
> And while we won't be posting a new chapter for a few weeks, we're more than happy to chat on tumblr in the meantime, so come find us at [@lefthanded-basilisk](https://lefthanded-basilisk.tumblr.com)  
> . The ask box is open.


	27. Chapter 27

Harry landed on the doorstep of Grimmauld Place, the stomach-bending whirl of Apparition lost beneath the roar of pain in his heart. He couldn’t go back to Hogwarts right away. He needed to hide from the world for at least a few hours. Draco had lied about the key. He’d used Harry to get into the Manor to get something Dark. Who cared what he needed it for? That wild babble about werewolves and Lucius and Azkaban and Dawlish—Harry couldn’t even think about that right now. Draco’s betrayal twisted inside him like a knife and his magic responded, surging around the wound, pounding in his chest and temples, threatening to burst out.

The heavy front door opened before he touched it, swinging back like a small animal skittering out of the way. No one called down to him. Remus didn't seem to be around. Good. He couldn't bear for anyone else to see him in this state. In the foyer, the troll’s leg umbrella-stand leaned away from him as he stormed past and as he pounded up the stairs, the faded carpet roses tried to furl themselves back into tiny buds beneath his feet. Brilliant. He was scaring Grimmauld Place now too. He remembered seeing _Poltergeist_ on the telly over Dudley’s shoulder one night and being too scared to fall asleep in his cupboard afterwards. What did it say about him that he’d grown up to be something haunted houses feared?

No wonder Draco hid things from you said the part of his brain that was reasonable, sane, capable of negotiating adult relationships, and generally unused. He stomped it flat with every footstep and slammed the door on it as he flung himself into Sirius’s old room. He pulled open the armoire, grabbed Sirius’s motorcycle jacket, and sank to the floor. He buried his face in the worn leather, surrounding himself with the scent of sandalwood and clean male sweat and just the faintest whiff of dog. The wood floorboards were hard beneath his knees and a sharp pain spoke of a splinter working its way into his shin and he didn’t care because he had the scent of Sirius in his nose now. _Sirius, Sirius, Sirius, I need you_ , Harry thought, and if magic were worth anything at all, Sirius would have appeared right then, alive and well.

But Sirius didn’t. Harry rocked back and forth, feeling young and stupid and in so much pain he could barely breathe. What did it matter if he could levitate a feather? If he wanted a feather lifted off the table, he could pick it up and waggle it about. What did it matter if he could say _Lumos_ and make light? He could flip a wall switch as easily as anyone. He could brew a love potion and make someone crave him, but it wouldn’t give him true and lasting love. Tom Riddle, for all his pathological fear of death, hadn’t even reached the average lifespan of a Muggle. What use was magic if it couldn’t give you any of the things you really needed? Family. Love. Life. Sirius. Draco. Dad and Mum and Dumbledore.

Harry breathed deeply as Sirius’s scent calmed him, soothing away the vicious stitch in his side he got when he needed to cry and wouldn’t let himself. To be fair, he thought, face pressed into the soft leather, if Sirius were here, he’d probably make things with Draco worse. Sensible advice hadn’t really been Sirius’s specialty. He probably would have recommended Accioing a load of custard into Draco’s pants or maybe going back to the Manor and pissing on a peacock. They’d have had a contest to see who could turn one from white to yellow fastest and then would have gotten chased back to the gates by a screeching, pecking, furious flock. They would have had to go to St. Mungo’s to get healed and they’d have lied their heads off when asked why they were beak-savaged, only to laugh about the whole thing later as they’d gone out and gotten trolleyed--

Oh God. Oh Merlin. Oh, all the things sacred to Muggle and to Magic both, it _hurt_. The ones he loved all left him, one by one. He’d thought Draco might finally be someone who stayed but lying was the same as leaving, wasn’t it?

He heard the door open and footsteps crossing the room. The bed squeaked behind him as someone sat down on the edge of it. Harry waited for someone to pull him out of the jacket and make him come downstairs and talk—that would be Hermione. Or come downstairs and eat—that would be Ron. Nothing happened. He could keep breathing into the leather as long as he liked. Whoever it was would give him time and knowing that, he didn’t need to look, he knew who it was.

“Remus,” Harry said finally when he could bring himself to lift his face out of the jacket. He wasn’t ashamed, not really. Remus came in here too sometimes to find the jacket and console himself with Sirius’s scent. Seeing was believing and they had both seen Sirius fall through the Veil, but with closed eyes, the sense of smell could bring him back to life for a little while.

Harry turned toward the creak of the bed without letting go of the jacket. Remus was on the side of the bed just like he’d thought, hands on his knees, leaning forward and looking down. Patient. Kind. All the things they said a wolf could never be. Harry shifted a little. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I want to talk about it?”

“Does anyone ever want to ‘talk about it’?” Remus asked, a wry smile on his lips. “I don’t think I ever have.”

“But it’s sensible to talk about it.” Harry sniffed, dry and loud, preemptively pulling in any possible teary leak.

“Oh yes, I’ve learned that. Quite painfully.” Remus coughed, still looking down. “Judging from your face I’d say this is an affair of the heart.”

Harry wanted to curl up into the smallest possible ball. Sometimes he loved how perceptive Remus was, but he wasn’t sure that now was one of those times.

“You know I spent the first half of my life being taught to lie and hide.” Remus finally looked up, brown eyes warm, amber flecks catching the light. “I’m not complaining, mind you,’ he added mildly. “Those skills served me well for a very long time. I would never have made it through Hogwarts if I hadn’t learned them.”

“But?” Harry asked, because there was always a ‘but’ when it came to being an adult.

“It turned out that was a very, very bad idea when it came to love.” Remus’s cheeks might have turned a little pink when he said the word ‘love’. What must it have been like for buttoned-up Remus, Harry suddenly wondered, when Sirius had barreled into his life with his bark of a laugh and a love of saying whatever the hell he wanted to? It must have been a revelation: the caged wolf meeting the dog who'd slipped the leash.

“But he--” Harry tensed when he heard himself—that so-revealing pronoun. He’d never told Remus about his suspicions that he might like blokes better than girls, and now he’d just spilled the beans. But Remus didn’t look surprised, which was more than a little annoying. Who wants to be known better by other people than you know yourself?

“Go on,” was all Remus said.

“He lied to me. He lied and he used me and he betrayed my trust. I thought I could trust him and--” he shook his head, pressing his lips together and turning his face away. _And I fell in love with him._ But if he admitted that out loud, he really would start crying.

“Have you talked to him?” Remus asked.

“There’s nothing left to say.”

Remus looked thoughtful. “I can’t say what’s best for you,” he said after a while. “But I can tell you the greatest mistake in my life was not talking to Sirius for twelve years. For believing he was guilty without ever speaking to him.”

Harry winced. “They wouldn’t have let you talk to him.”

Remus nodded. “True. But I didn’t try and that’s what I’ve had to live with. Perhaps—” he had to turn his head now, a choke in his voice quickly smoothed back into Remus’s ever-modulated tones, “—perhaps he would at least have gotten word I tried. That would have said enough, if not everything.”

“You think I’m lucky to have the chance to talk things out and I’m an idiot if I don’t. That’s what you think.”

Remus spread his hands, conciliating. “I think I spent those twelve years fighting with Sirius in my head. I’d have been better off talking with him face to face, just once.”

“You right away thought he was guilty?” Harry felt guilty himself just thinking it. He’d always wondered but been afraid to ask. “You really thought Sirius had betrayed you?”

“Instantly,” Remus said. “The minute I heard it, I believed it. It felt true down to my bones. It felt like something I'd spent my whole life waiting to hear.”

Anger layered on top of incomprehension. Harry balled up fistfuls of leather, sinking his fingernails through the traces of motorcycle grease. “How could you think that about Sirius?” burst out, loud and fierce. “He loved you!”

“Yes. He did.” Remus nodded, mild as ever. “I believed it because it’s what I’d been waiting to hear.” He pressed his lips together until it must have hurt, they went so white. “Harry, I thought I couldn’t be loved. I’d spent my whole life learning that. It came from the nurses who whispered what a shame a nice-looking boy like me was a monster. It came from my mother, who cried because now of course I’d never marry, and from my father who brooded because his line had ended with me. It was Sirius’s love that had felt like a lie the whole time we were together.”

“So you were happy when he went to Azkaban?” Harry’s anger flared hotter. “You were finally free from his horrible lie of love?”

“Of course not. It hurt so badly I longed for the full moon.” Remus sighed, sagging a little. “The pain of transformation is something I’d never wish on anyone but at least I knew for a few hours every month, I’d be free from ruminating on what Sirius had done.” He squeezed the edge of the bed, wrinkling the red and gold coverlet. “Well, what I thought he had done.”

Harry stared at Remus as he unwillingly felt a creeping swell of self-recognition. Was that what he’d been waiting for this whole time with Draco, a betrayal? Had some part of him scrutinized everything Draco did, at one level or another, looking for that?

Remus stood up, rubbing at his neck with a diffident air. “The point is that sometimes the things that seem most true feel that way because they’re what you believe about yourself. They don’t tell you anything about the other person. If you want to know something about someone else, you’ll have to talk to them.”

Harry stood up too, unwilling to let Remus leave with that sad droop to his shoulders.“You didn’t deserve that. You shouldn’t have thought that about yourself.”

Remus stilled, the sudden freeze of a predator who has caught his prey. That little smile returned to his lips as he met Harry’s gaze straight on. “Then you shouldn’t think that about yourself either.”

“This isn’t about me,” Harry said, feeling like he’d walked into that one, but now he was here, he might as well keep talking. “It’s about Draco.”

Remus, bless him, let Harry’s slip of Draco’s name pass without comment. Harry pulled Sirius’s jacket on, needing its warmth and weight. “Draco’s the one who lied to me. He’s the one who acted like he loved me when he always really meant to leave me.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Remus said, in that teacher’s way which meant of course you were wrong but you needed to work it out for yourself. He turned toward the door.

Harry’s mouth twisted as he realized that now of course he had to give the whole argument some thought. The Dursleys hadn’t exactly raised him to expect love, had they? Dumbledore surely had cared more about him than Petunia had, but hadn’t Harry learned from Dumbledore to look for the lies underneath the caring? His parents had loved him, obviously, but hadn’t he learned from them to expect that love would leave him?

Remus turned back as he reached the door. “Would you like to come downstairs and have some tea?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, as if the thought of sitting comfortably in a warm kitchen with Remus wasn’t suddenly the nicest thing in the whole world. He stood up. “Have you got choccy biscuits?”

“Of course. Three different kinds, as a matter of fact.” Remus led the way into the hall and to the stairs. “Plus ginger too, I believe.”

There was something else Harry had wanted to ask. It was easier to say it to Remus’s back as they went down the stairs than to his face. “Do you think, er, that you might ever find love with someone else? I mean, I thought maybe you and Tonks—”

Remus didn’t seem perturbed to be asked, if the lack of tension in his shoulders was anything to judge by. “I think a great deal of Tonks and I’m delighted we had Teddy, of course, but we’re better together as parents than a couple.”

Harry followed Remus into the kitchen, where the kettle was already flying onto the stovetop and the cups were tumbling out of the cupboard ready for their tea. Had Remus never been able to move on after Sirius--had that been the real problem? Would it be like that for Harry, unable to move on after Draco? That was ridiculous, Harry was young, this would pass, of course it would, so why did it feel just the same? “You don’t mind that she’s with Charlie now?”

“Charlie is wonderful with Teddy and Teddy loves him. I couldn’t ask for more than that.” Remus rubbed the back of his neck. “There are many people who would be frightened of the child of a werewolf.” His lip quirked up. “A man who tames dragons, fortunately, is not one of them.”

Harry frowned as he took a seat, watching as Remus brought out his stash of tea. Was it still that bad for werewolves and their children? Things were supposed to be getting better. “You’re at the Werewolf Outreach Office now,” he said, trying to bring his attention to something other than his own problems.

Remus nodded as he sorted the sugar and the milk, waiting for the real question, which obviously wasn’t where he worked. “Is there something you wanted to know?”

All of a sudden, Draco’s babbled justifications in the hotel room rolled back into Harry’s head. Something about werewolves and Azkaban. What was it, exactly? Harry took his cup of tea with thanks as Remus sat it in front of him. Biscuit packets leaped from the counter to the table, opening themselves suggestively, offering up their contents. “It’s just that Draco said something about werewolves in Azkaban being used to menace people,” he said slowly. “Do you think that might be true? Have you heard anything?”

Remus sucked in a heavy breath as he sat down, blowing it out slowly across the hot surface of his tea. “Given Greyback’s allegiance, there are a number of werewolves in Azkaban. We’re representing a few of them—some of them are clearly innocent of any involvement.” A fierce anger lit his features for a moment. “As if a general member of the public could tell one transformed werewolf from another in the light of the moon. We all look the same to them.”

Harry gave a guilty start. It hadn’t quite occurred to him before that werewolves must come in a range of sizes and colours and markings, just like any other animal. The textbooks, with their talk of the ‘seven identifying characteristics’ and such, made it sound like ‘werewolf’ was a single fixed entity that you changed into with no relation to the person beneath the pelt.

Remus had continued on and Harry tuned back in as Remus was saying, “Voldemort used us to intimidate and terrify. Unfortunately his methods didn’t die with him as thoroughly as we hoped. Yes, I’ve had reports of werewolves being used against their will to threaten other prisoners in Azkaban. Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to catch anyone in the act of doing it. Though it wouldn’t surprise me, at this point it’s still just rumors.”

Harry sputtered around a swallow of too-hot tea.

Remus had paused and was watching him with a quizzical look. “Harry? Is there something you know?”

Harry felt a rush of adrenalin as Draco’s words replayed in his head: _Dawlish has got a werewolf in Father’s cell, to torture him._ He hadn’t really taken that in during their argument in the hotel, had he? He looked back at Remus. “Draco said--well, he said Lucius was being threatened in Azkaban by a werewolf. I mean, by the guards, using a werewolf. He said something about Dawlish, that Auror who’s monitoring Draco’s probation.” It was all coming back to Harry now. “He said Dawlish had stolen a grimoire from the Manor and was making him get the key to open it or else he’d let the werewolf tear Lucius up. Turn him. Maybe just eat him.”

Harry watched the dawning horror on Remus’s face as he sat, tea ignored, taking this in. He’d seen that exact same horror on Draco’s face today, he realized with a flutter in his heart. Remus wasn’t reacting as if everything Draco had said was a pack of lies.

“The full moon is less than two days away, Harry.” Remus flicked his wand in a quick _Accio_. His traveling cloak came flying into the room and he caught it as he stood. “Let me go talk to Tonks right now--she’ll know who we can trust among the Aurors. We’ll make a plan to catch them at it.” A flash of amber in his eyes hinted at the wolf beneath his skin. “This is exactly what we’ve needed to end the guards abusing werewolves like this.”

Remus turned on his heel and Apparated away, leaving Harry staring after him, his biscuits forgotten. Werewolves really were being used that way at Azkaban. That meant at least one thing Draco had told him was true. And look at how Remus viewed the situation. Remus was concerned for the werewolf, which of course Harry understood, but without a mention of the man the werewolf might kill--Draco’s father.

He stared down at his tea, feeling, for the first time, a flicker of understanding of Draco’s behavior. What had Draco said? _The Arithmancy room showed me that if I could just get Dawlish the key then I could free him, and I have to. I can’t do anything else, he’s my father._

It made sense. No one else gave a damn about Lucius Malfoy, maybe not even Remus. Harry pushed his chair away from the tea and biscuits. Of course Draco would want to save his father from torture and probable murder. And in typical Slytherin fashion, he’d resorted to deceit in order to do it. Harry was still angry about that, but hadn’t he done the same thing at times in his life when he’d been desperate? Hadn’t he lied to Griphook about intending to give back the Sword of Gryffindor? And if what Draco said hadn’t all been lies, then what else had he said that was true? Could the things Draco said he felt about Harry be true too? Could the way he’d kissed Harry, with what seemed like desperate love, be true?

He wasn’t going to be an idiot about this, Harry decided. He wasn’t going to just listen to the ugly old voices which said all he deserved were lies and abandonment. If Draco had good reason for what he’d done—well, that changed everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Tari_Vilya for the beta! Comments loved and appreciated—they keep the chapters coming!


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to Maesterchill for the beta!

Chapter 28

Draco huddled against the stone wall at the far end of Hogwarts’ kitchen gardens, his fist tight around the broken grimoire key. He hadn’t had the courage to go all the way into the Flesh Eater’s Garden, but from his position he could peer around the gate and have a clear view of the spot where Dawlish had ordered the meeting--the stone table was clearly visible between the spiky, gaping mouths of the Jupiter fly-trap plants lining the path.

Shivering, Draco shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his robes. He’d only been out here behind the Hogwarts kitchens for a few minutes, but the twilight’s autumn chill had already seeped into his bones.

Oh, who was he kidding? It wasn’t the damp November weather that was making him tremble like this. He was fucking terrified. Any minute now Dawlish was going to show up with the grimoire and demand Draco open it, and all Draco had to help him accomplish that was a broken key. And a broken heart to match it. A fresh swell of grief rose in his throat like a sob. Draco slammed it down, the muscles in his chest contracting in the same ache that had kept him up most of the night, even after he’d stopped crying. He would not think of Harry, of the fight in the hotel room, of the terrible things Harry had said. It was too late for that. It was over. Harry never wanted to speak to him again, just like the Arithmancy Room had predicted. But that meant there was a chance the rest of the prediction would still come true as well, didn’t it? That he could still free his father, because getting the key had been the first step in that plan? 

Draco grit his teeth and tried to still his trembling hands. If Dawlish saw he was afraid, it would make everything worse. Maybe the key would still work, despite the fact that its emerald had come off in the fire. Or maybe he could tell Dawlish that the Grimoire wouldn’t open until after Dawlish had kept his promise and released Father from the werewolf. Or maybe he could offer Dawlish some other kind of favor, maybe--

“Malfoy.” 

Dawlish’s voice made Draco jump, his elbow banging hard into the stone wall. Dawlish must have sneaked in from the far side of the Flesh Eater’s garden; he now stood at the stone table in the garden’s center, a tall imposing figure in his Auror robes, face shadowed in the twilight.

Rubbing his elbow, Draco straightened up, threw back his thin shoulders, and started down the path, trying to look like a wizard whose magic--whose nerves--were more than equal to the task before him. 

“Good evening, young Malfoy,” Dawlish said, with a smile that would have been almost pleasant except that there were too many teeth in it. Draco thought fleetingly of the mouths of the fly-traps behind him, the way their sharp green fangs snapped shut once their prey had been lured onto the fleshy lobes of the plants’ leaf-mouths.

Draco nodded in greeting, his fingers tight on the key.

“Have you brought what I asked you to retrieve from the Manor?”

Draco nodded again, relieved that this time Dawlish wasn’t going to toy with him before getting to the point.

“Smart lad.” Dawlish’s gaze darted to something behind Draco and Draco turned, thinking that perhaps they’d been spotted. But no, Dawlish was looking at the moon. It was newly risen, low and huge on the horizon. It appeared full already, the slight roughness of its final curve nearly invisible in the gathering darkness. It would be moon was tomorrow. He had twenty-four hours before Father had to face down the werewolf again. Hopefully, he wouldn’t need them. 

He turned back to Dawlish, watching as he pulled a miniaturized holdall from somewhere in the folds of his Auror robes. A tap of his wand expanded it to the size of a carpet bag; Dawlish then removed a large, leather-bound book from its interior, its ancient cover worn to suede at the edges. The grimoire. It was held shut by a thin slab of iron that connected the entire front cover to the back, sealing in the pages on all three sides. 

_“Lumos,”_ Dawlish muttered. 

Now Draco could make out the keyhole in the iron locking plate and see too that there was writing on the book’s cover, gilt lettering that had partially flaked off its embossed surface. Twisting his head round, he tried to make sense of the archaic script, and at last read, with difficulty: 

_Oblivius Totalis: On the Mislaying of Memories_

Draco looked up, confused. This was what Dawlish wanted? He’d expected something a bit… well, Darker than a book of obliviation spells.

Dawlish grinned, his teeth flashing white in the shadows. “An undetectable obliviation spell’s a useful thing after a war,” he said, “especially when certain members of the Shacklebolt administration see fit to deny promotions to those of us who remained employed during the Voldemort administration. Rather capricious that, given that the entire Ministry was under the command of the Dark Lord.”

Draco nodded again, his mind spinning. He was too nervous to be able to work out what Dawlish was getting at.

“I ought to be Senior Officer by now,” Dawlish went on pleasantly, as if they were colleagues discussing work over a pint at the Leaky. “But it seems there are too many bleeding hearts at the top who don’t understand what chain-of-command means.” He gave Draco a sudden, sharp look. “I did my job under Voldemort just like you did yours, little Malfoy. And with a few key memories undetectably wiped, I’ll be Head Auror in no time. I thought we might start with your memory. Just to be sure the spells work, of course. Now hand over the key.”

For one moment, Draco was paralyzed. If the key worked and Dawlish wiped his memory, how would he know whether Dawlish had followed through and freed Father? Or...Draco went cold. Maybe that was the whole point. With an undetectable obliviation spell, Dawlish could abuse prisoners and extort treasures from their families whenever he liked, wipe their memories after, and no one would be the wiser. Perhaps he could even make families forget they had a loved one in Azkaban at all.

Draco tightened his grip on the key, his eyes darting toward the gate at the end of the path. He knew that if the lost emerald rendered the key useless, he didn’t stand a chance defending himself if Dawlish decided to curse him. Perhaps he could beg Dawlish for another chance, promise to bring him something else from the Manor, if Dawlish would only agree to remove the werewolf from Father’s cell--

“ _Accio_ grimoire key,” Dawlish said, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice, and Draco’s hand was jerked violently from his pocket as the key darted from his fingers and into Dawlish’s waiting palm. 

Draco held his breath as Dawlish fitted the key into the lock and tried to turn it.

Nothing happened. 

Of course not. Draco watched as Dawlish removed the key from the lock and brought it close to his face, frowning. The setting where the emerald had been looked ghastly, an empty eye-socket. Of course the key wasn’t going to work without its emerald, and Draco had known that all along, hadn’t he? Why then had he not come up with some better plan, found something else Dawlish would jump at the chance to possess? He had fucked this up too, of course.

“Sir,” he began, hating the tremor in his voice, “I know the key is broken. But I brought it as testament to the fact that I--that I’ll--” 

I’ll do anything to free my father, he meant to say. But the words stuck in his throat. Would he really do anything? _Anything_ Dawlish might ask of him, no matter the consequences? How far should his loyalty to his family extend? He’d already lost Harry. What else was he prepared to lose? 

_Harry,_ whimpered the deep ache in his chest. _Harry, come back._

“I am extremely disappointed in your efforts,” Dawlish said, and for one sick, surreal moment, Draco imagined it was his father who stood before him, scowling down at him and telling him he’d failed; that this was all a sick joke, a mad test, Father wasn’t in prison, he was right here, he was safe--

“John Dawlish!” 

The shout came from behind Draco. He whirled around in time to see a vaguely familiar-looking Auror with a round face and spiky hair advancing toward him, her wand drawn at shoulder height. _“Incarcerous!”_ the Auror shouted, and Dawlish’s arms and legs were snapped tight to his body as thin cords issued from the Auror’s wand, wrapping around Dawlish’s limbs and snugging them hard against his body. 

“I arrest you under suspicion of trafficking in Dark Objects, multiple counts of prisoner abuse, and bribery,” the Auror continued, stumbling a little on the flagstones as she cast a Levicorpus. Dawlish’s bound body was lifted a few inches off the ground, where it bobbed back and forth as he struggled against the ropes of the Incarcerous.

“What the hell do you know about it, Tonks? You likely fucked your way to the--” 

The Auror flicked her wand again, casting a silencing spell that left Dawlish opening and closing his mouth like a fish. She turned to Draco and winked. “Better for him that he remains silent,” she said, “seeing that anything he says can and will be used against him.” 

“What?” Draco’s mind was racing. Tonks was the name of the Muggle his disgraced Aunt Andromeda had run off with. Was this Auror in front of him his cousin? 

“Oh, I do like those American cop shows on the Muggle telly,” the Auror said, with a grin that suddenly made it eerily clear who she was: her smile was just like the one he’d glimpsed in the portrait of a young Andromeda that his mother kept hidden her dresser. “But don’t worry,” Tonks continued, “we’ll caution Dawlish properly back at the Ministry.” 

“You’re my cousin,” Draco said stupidly.

“Well-spotted. Five points to Slytherin. Now then--” she raised her wand again.

“Wait! Please don’t Incarcerous me," Draco blurted. "I got Dawlish the key because he put a werewolf in Father’s cell, he said Father would be killed or turned if I didn’t give it to him. If you don’t believe me, go to Azkaban and check, please check, the full moon’s tomorrow and the werewolf is still there, and I swear I wouldn’t have violated my parole--”

“ _Accio_ Dawlish’s wand,” Tonks said, ignoring Draco's babbling and reaching out to catch the Auror’s wand as it jumped neatly from his hand into hers. Only then did she turn to Draco, the sharp frankness of her gaze shutting him up as easily as a silencing spell. “I’m not arresting _you,_ Malfoy," she said, with a look in her eye that might have been amusement. "Not at the moment anyway," she amended. "But I daresay if you _are_ brought in for violating your parole, they'll let you off, seeing as you've just given us information leading to the arrest of those engaged in prisoner abuse.”

“I never--” Draco began, and then thought better of it. If Tonks thought he’d done a good deed, better to let her think it. “Is my father all right?” he asked instead. 

“He’s been moved to house arrest at his place of residence for now,” Tonks said. “Wiltshire, is it? With overtime Aurors at every window and door, so yeah, I’d say he’s safe. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to Get this wankstain into a holding cell. We’ll send someone round to notify your mum as well. Let’s go, John.” She nudged Dawlish’s bobbing foot with one of her own, which, Draco now saw, was shod not in standard Auror wingtips but in some sort of Muggle boots that reminded Draco obscurely of loud, dissonant music.

And then she was frog-marching her prisoner out of the garden, leaving Draco alone among the fly-traps and creeping necrotic vines.

Draco took a deep breath, letting his head tip back toward the night sky. He had done it. He had freed his father, just as the Arithmancy equations had promised. Yet he didn’t feel relief. In the chill of the Flesh Eater’s Garden, bathed in cold moonlight and surrounded by menacing shadows, it was hard to believe there was anywhere truly safe. No sooner had the thought entered his mind than a memory arose in all his senses--he was in Harry’s bed somewhere high in Gryffindor tower, held down by the delicious weight of Harry’s chest against his own; the smell of sex and school soap was in the air, and the taste of Harry’s mouth on his, and the bump of his wire-frame glasses against Draco’s temple, and the softness of the sheets, and he was safe, he was saved--and then the memory was gone again, blown away by a cold breeze that set the lobes of the Jupiter fly-trap swaying, their shadows shifting on the ground like scuttling animals. Draco took another breath, his chest aching and curiously empty. That memory belonged to another world that had nothing at all to do with this one. 

But here he was, in this new world, alone yet upright. This time tomorrow the moonlight would turn the man in father’s cell into a mindless, vicious beast, and Father wouldn’t be there. 

Was that true? Was Father really out of Azkaban and back at the Manor, because Draco Malfoy succeeded, for once in his life, at what he set out to do? 

_Harry,_ the voice in Draco’s chest cried again. Had been crying, he realized, since the moment Harry had abandoned him in the Muggle hotel room in London. And would keep crying unless he found some way to convince it that there was no point in going on like that because Harry wasn’t coming back. 

Draco shoved his hands in his robes, noticing as he did so that they were shaking. He needed to go back to the Manor, he realized. He needed to see for himself that Father was safe; perhaps that would make it easier to bear the consequences of what he had done.


End file.
